


Snow Tires & Iced Coffees

by bwyn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Asexual Keith (Voltron), Asexual Lance (Voltron), Drinking, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Social Media, bi/ace lance is BACK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-14 10:33:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16490903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bwyn/pseuds/bwyn
Summary: Lance shifts from foot to foot, feeling the cold seep away what little warmth his toes had been hanging onto. “Who said it was okay for everyone to move out of the province again?”“Maybe you’ll be next,” says Allura, scoffing when Lance shoots her a dubious look. “What? For years Pidge said she was going to move to Toronto—”“Claim a fancy place in Forest Hill,” interjects Lance with a nod.“—and yet she’s out on the coast. Breathing sea air. Getting her poutine nabbed by gulls.”“A day’s drive away from her favourite people,” Lance adds. “Turns out adulthood is driving a batshit amount just to see your friends for a day or two.”***One weekend, good friends, and an excessive amount of driving later, Lance learns a lot about what it means to grow up.





	1. alternate title: how many iced coffees can one man drink in a two hour period

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thesatellitepirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesatellitepirate/gifts).



> this fic is dedicated to amber, who inspired the entire snapchat saga, and who also helped edit this hot mess into a slightly less messy version of itself :')) i'm also taking this opportunity to admit that your name in snapchat is saved as Ampersand with a fairy emoji and i have no explanation ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿
> 
> now who's ready for a fic that's so obnoxiously canadian you'll forget what it means to be anything but?? originally this was for the klance big bang...but then i dropped!! but posting closer to the actual timeline in the fic works much better for me :)) I'll be posting it throughout november as a prelude to the actual holidays hehe

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

**The Devil Herself**

Hey Lance

 

**The Devil Herself**

Hey Lance

 

**The Devil Herself**

Hey Lance

Hey

Hey

Hey

Hey

 

**Me**

oh my god waht

i just fukkin stopped

 

**The Devil Herself**

Where

 

**Me**

there

 

**The Devil Herself**

? Where

 

**Me**

o it didnt send ho ld o n

fukkin

they say theres wifi but there fukkinisnt

liars!!!!!

all of them!!!!!

 

» Lance posing in front of the white and green sign of an ONroute, a peace sign covering most of his grin.

Caption: first stop kiddos

 

**The Devil Herself**

Oh

My God

King City?

You’re like not even an hour outside TO

 

» Inside the same pitstop, showcasing the line-up at the Tim Hortons versus the three people hovering by the Burger King and Swiss Chalet.

Caption: lmao

 

**Me**

ssshhhhh

im havin fun ok!!!

also its like half that lol

also also have you even left nova scotia

 

**The Devil Herself**

Yep, visited Omi in Montreal for a few days

We’re passing Ottawa now

 

**Me**

wtf

kk im zoomin

 

» A blurry picture of Lance’s hand holding an iced coffee.

 

» A shaky video of Pidge zooming in on the dashboard clock while Nickelback blasts in the background.

Caption: Blaze it

 

» A video of Lance rapidly zooming in and out of the time on his dash.

Caption: blaaaaze it!!!!!

 

» A slow zoom in of an analog clock over a fridge.

Caption: blaze it

 

» A screenshot of a phone screen, the wallpaper a plump bumblebee, with the time 4:21 PM.

Caption: Are you kidding me??

* * *

The road is dove grey ahead as Lance accelerates to merge onto the highway. Sitting on a bed of gas receipts, his phone buzzes within the free cupholder. Lance reaches for it with one hand, eyes glued to the road until he figures it’s safe enough to risk a glance at his alerts. There are a couple Snapchat notifications, an email from Duolingo passive-aggressively demanding he keep the owl happy, and several concerned texts from his mom.

His Toyota protests loudly when its wheels skim the rough shoulder. Lance jerks the car back into its proper lane, peeking through the rearview just to see which strangers witnessed his slip (just an unnecessarily lifted pickup, so really who should be embarrassed?). The cellphone returns to its throne, texts left temporarily unanswered.

Maybe he’d be able to scoff a little more about his mother’s worrying if not for the few near-misses he’d strategically failed to mention to her.

Wisps of snow create snakes that disappear under the wheels of the minivan ahead. Lance accelerates over the highway’s ninety limit to pass. It hasn’t been that long since it started to snow—big chunks of white that seem to break in midair—but it isn’t the snowflakes on his windshield that has Lance checking his mirrors thrice as much as he usually does (and half as much as he should). There’s a fog descending with the snow, and with that, the threat of a whiteout.

A brief excerpt from the list of things Lance’s mother told him to watch out for, which includes but is not limited to: passing tractor-trailers, merging into the fast lane, merging into the slow lane, merging into any lane, moose.

The only thing he’s really terrified of are the moose. The rest are probably just a product of her watching _Heavy Rescue: 401—_ which could actually be one of the main reasons she refuses to get her own license, now that he thinks about it.

He’s so absorbed in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize a truck is drifting into his lane as he’s passing it. Lance’s heart shoots its way into his throat.

“No thank you, sir!” Lance shouts as he rockets 130, wrangling the steering wheel like a bull. His tires hit the rough shoulder just as the truck jolts back into its own lane. He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the next ONroute.

* * *

★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★

 

» Lance sitting in his car, staring into the distance, a half-finished iced coffee clutched to his chest.

Caption: nearly died fam. gonna get taken out by a truck. rip in piss me

 

» A shaky video of Matt, tawny hair crammed under a ushanka, hunched over the steering wheel and badly singing along to Queen. Pidge giggles from behind the phone.

Caption: Same. Matt wouldn’t talk for ten minutes and now he’s like this.

 

» A view of the snowy road outside Lance’s car.

Caption: fuck us i guess

 

**Bees?**

Please don’t die before I get to see you guys!!

 

**Me**

doin my got dangd best!!!!

 

» Keith with black, sleep-mussed hair nuzzles his nose into a creamy-coloured rabbit. Both are bundled cozily.

Caption: warm unlike yall

 

» You took a screenshot! «

 

**Me**

give lorazepam snuggles from me

tell her i love her

that ill miss her

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

ohmygod youre not dead

 

**Me**

yet!!

It was a near miss!!!!

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

right ok ill tell her you tolerate her

 

**Me**

no omg give her nose boops dammit!!!!!!

 

**Bees?**

From me, too!!

 

**The Devil Herself**

And me!

 

» Keith turned towards the rabbit, their noses touching. He’s smiling like he’s trying not to laugh.

 

» You took a screenshot! «

 

» A sign marked “Eganville” whips past the passenger side window, and then Matt’s voice, “I’m going to need tequila when we get there, I swear to—”

 

» Keith’s rabbit flings herself onto an empty dog bed.

 

**Bees?**

I’m in love.

 

» A McDonald’s iced coffee sits in the cup holder of Lance’s car.

Caption: i h8 how good u taste

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

youre going to drink alcohol after all that caffeine?

 

**Me**

ya man

 

**Bees?**

Rip dude

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

bye i guess

 

» A close-up of Lance’s exaggerated frown.

Caption: git fukt

* * *

Lance fumbles one-handed for his phone as he comes careening off the highway. The roads here still have a layer of packed snow over the pavement, and he slows down carefully. He isn’t sure how close the turn is from the highway, but since he knows it isn’t far, he keeps his eyes peeled as he passes tiny sign after tiny sign. The sun is well down, but the sky is still a hazy kind of purple. Lance belatedly flicks on his headlights.

He sees the turnoff too late and hits the brakes, but the snow beneath his tires is unforgiving. The Toyota skids a few meters before Lance gives up on making the turn. Instead, he rolls down until there’s a driveway he can use to turn around. The engine whines loudly as he makes the shift into second gear a bit too late, but he makes it to the turnoff without getting run over by anyone riding up his ass.

There’s even more snow here. It obviously isn’t a paved road, but ploughs have been through to clear away the worst of the snow and pack down the rest into a usable path. All the houses are done up nice and pretty for the holidays, even though Christmas has already passed. They twinkle in the darkness, reflecting off the frost crusted on Lance’s exterior mirrors.

After ten minutes of wandering, Lance finally admits he’s lost and takes out his phone to use GPS, as opposed to relying on the post-it note stuck to the long expired _Canada 150th_ national park pass hanging from the rear view mirror. He has to turn around twice, but eventually he finds the rental cottage. The road lies between the building and the river, frozen over white but for dark patches where the water still moves. The first thing Lance sees is a Christmas tree sitting in front of the bay window. People mill about inside, but he doesn’t recognize any of them until he spots the flick of a long pink ponytail. The giddiness is instantaneous.

Two cars already sit in the available space. Lance squeezes his between them before hopping out. Immediately he’s hit with the sharp bite of cold, gloveless hands rubbed raw by the first brush of wind. After zipping his coat up tight, Lance grabs his overnight bags and an armful of beer, and then marches up to the front door. He doesn’t bother knocking.

“ _Lance!”_

Allura barely waits for Lance to juggle everything in his arms before she’s swooping in to hug him. A cloud of floral perfume and snow-white hair envelopes him along with arms made for embracing. He barely fumbles an arm around her before she’s stepping back and grabbing the beers.

“Nice to see you too, you animal,” Lance snorts as he follows her up the stairs to the main floor.

The cottage isn’t large by any means, but it’s spacious. The Christmas tree sitting by the window is surrounded by a low coffee table, a plush armchair, and a couch. Allura walks directly into the open kitchen, where several women sit around the snack-covered island.

As Allura puts the beer away into the fridge, she says over her shoulder, “You’ve met everyone before, right?”

“Oh, I’m familiar with Ezor,” says Lance with a wry grin at the woman with the long, pink ponytail.

She beams back. “Don’t say it like that! We’ve had _tons_ of fun together!”

“I distinctly remember eating a lot of snow off of cars during the Christmas party.” Among other things, including but not limited to: leaving a slew of poorly lit selfies on every unattended phone, spiking the already spiked punch with more Captain Morgan than strictly necessary (or desired), and—Lance’s personal favourite—getting high in the empty jacuzzi and discussing eugenics.

Now Ezor flicks her ponytail over her shoulder with a winning flutter of her lashes. “And nobody got sick!”

“You got me there.” He laughs and looks at the other three. “I’ve met the rest of you while hammered.”

“Isn’t that how it usually goes?” Zethrid says, tall and muscled and the epitome of intimidating—when she isn’t drunk and playing with Allura’s cats. Lance can’t remember a single party they went to that he didn’t see her dropping out mid-conversation at the appearance of the fluffy ginger beast named The Gorgeous Man.

“We met briefly at the wedding,” says the one with a short bob. Before Lance can ask, she adds, “Acxa.”

“Right, I remember you.” And he does. They’d exchanged maybe three words while taking advantage of the open bar, but her impromptu tango with Zethrid was unforgettable. Lance looks at the fourth woman, sporting a buzz cut and round glasses to hide milky eyes. “Narti, right?”

She smiles slightly and nods. Allura appears at Lance’s side, plucking impatiently at his coat.

“Hang this up already,” she says.

“Yes ma’am!”

There’s a plethora of coat hooks on the wall space between the living room and kitchen. Lance adds his to the mix before turning to Allura.

“So, sleeping arrangements?” he asks.

“Right!” She spins around. On the wall opposite the coats and closest to the stairs are three doors. “Middle is the bathroom. Zethrid and Narti called dibs on this one, and Shiro and I are staying in that one.” She points to the left and right of the bathroom.

“Acxa and I are gonna share the bunk downstairs with Lotor,” says Ezor with a gesture at the staircase.

“We’ve got air mattresses on the way,” continues Allura, turning to Lance, “but if you want you can share the other room downstairs with Plaxum. You guys bedshare, right?”

Lance feels his face heat up. “Yeah, well, uh, I’d rather take a couch, honestly. I’ll just end up there anyway. Last to sleep, first to rise, you know me.”

He doesn’t mention that it wasn’t so platonic for Plaxum, or that it was a conversation he avoided every time they ended up cuddling in bed together after Allura’s parties. Every morning when he got up first—usually to sit at the kitchen table on his phone at 7AM—he’d feel vaguely guilty, as if he was stringing her along. Last he heard, Plaxum was maybe sort of seeing someone. Not to mention Lance has started feeling like he shouldn’t be sharing beds with anyone even slightly interested in him, because that felt like he was tempting something he shouldn’t. Especially when one adds in his infatuation with Keith.

“Only when you’ve been drinking,” Allura says, but relents. “Alright, Matt and Pidge can duel it out for the last double or something. They’ll figure it out.”

Lance slings his bags over his shoulder as he follows her down to the front door landing, and then turning to continue further to the lower level. Three couches, just as plump as the one upstairs, surround a television framed by shelves packed with DVDs.

“Bedroom, bedroom, bathroom,” says Allura, pointing to each. “There’s a basket of blankets there so you can help yourself.”

“Nice,” says Lance as he dumps his bags in a corner.

“Shiro, Lotor, and Plaxum just went into town to fetch food and alcohol,” says Allura as they return up the stairs. “Matt’s driving right? Have you texted Pidge where they are?”

Lance draws his phone out of his pocket to check his messages. There’s a text from his mom, asking him if he’s arrived yet with thinly veiled irritation. He quickly tells her that he made it, and receives a smiley face that comes across pretty sarcastic. He moves on to his Snapchats.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» A blurry Matt exiting a tiny LCBO, the sign and windows glowing bright in the surrounding darkness.

Caption: Smaller than my bedroom and yet better selection than downtown? Lol

 

» Lights whipping past the car, and Matt bellowing the lyrics to _Grace Kelly._

 

» Lance and Allura posing cheek to cheek, smiles gleaming equally white and way too wide.

Caption: hurry tf up

 

» A badly lit video of Pidge’s face with the dog filter struggling to attach itself to her features. Matt has moved on to singing _Rasputin_.

 

» A close-up of Lance cracking open his first beer, before panning out to show Ezor and Zethrid knocking back shots.

Caption: speed up bls

 

» The television in the basement, showing the opening title screen for Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. It slowly zooms out to show a beaming Allura leaning over to try and get in the shot, a green Somersby can in hand. Somewhere in the background is Ezor shouting, “Where the shit is my wee—oh, found it” followed by Zethrid’s guffaws.

 

**Bees?**

Looks like it’s already a party!!

 

**The Devil Herself**

We’re so close omg

 

» A video of Hermione sticking her hand in the air in Snape’s class and Zethrid shouting, “Know-it-all! Drink!” and Acxa saying quietly, “God, I’m going to be hammered because Hermione can’t keep her damn hand down.” Lance snickers.

 

» A picture of Allura staring at Lance, mouth agape, and her can of cider tipping dangerously on her knee.

Caption: told her she was a dork like hermione luuul

* * *

The golden trio have just landed on a tangled mass of Devil’s Snare when the front door to the cottage clicks open and Lotor’s baritone voice precedes him.

“We come bearing gifts!”

“Of food!” adds Shiro.

“And alcohol!”

Allura vaults over the back of the couch, the empty can in her hand joining the first on the floor. “Taka!”

“Lu!”

“Lotty!” shouts Ezor.

“Ezzy!” returns Lotor.

“Food!” cries Lance, joining the stampede up the stairs as Lotor and Shiro struggle to step out of their shoes, a fluffy-haired Plaxum hovering just beyond the threshold in the cold. “Let the poor girl in, you fools.”

Lotor is first to free himself, pale hair escaping from the confines of a bun, and slips past Shiro as he stumbles against the railing. Plaxum moves to take the opening but Ezor and Zethrid are bounding up after Lotor, with Narti and Acxa not far behind. She stays standing in the cold with a resigned expression, until Shiro is free of his shoes and Allura is beckoning her inside hurriedly.

“So sorry to be in the way,” says Plaxum serenely, in that way of hers that Lance has only recently recognized as sarcasm.

He laughs when he catches her eye, and she smiles. Everyone floods the kitchen, cramming food and booze into the fridge. Somehow they find more space on the counters for chips, fruit, bottles, and assorted baked goods courtesy of Narti (to be taken in deliberately small doses) and Shiro (to be eaten in larger quantities after consumption of Narti’s).

At some point a shepherd’s pie is shoved into the oven and the coffee machine is gurgling. There’s an assortment of glasses on every available surface next to empty cans, half-filled cans, and cans that aren’t even fully open yet because they started spewing froth.

When the front door opens once again, Lance is playing a vicious game of Clue (Harry Potter edition, of course) during which Allura has tried to convince him that “the spider’s butt is hidden here, that means there _must_ be a secret tunnel and I’m taking it!” and Plaxum has somehow turned it into a battle of wits against Acxa.

The game is forgotten when the Holts begin shouting for attention. Lance scrambles to his feet, knees bumping the coffee table and scattering the game pieces. Allura takes real offence to this, but she’s ultimately ignored as Lance and Pidge perform a sort of dance trying to get to each other, the stairs blocked by Matt and Shiro’s embrace.

“Love of my life!” crows Matt to Shiro’s heavily buzzed laughter.

“Let’s get you caught up,” says Shiro, guiding his firmly embraced friend backwards into the kitchen.

Finally Lance is free to swoop down upon Pidge, who only accepts his hug because he’s spent years conditioning her for it. There’s a veritable conveyor belt of embraces and greetings after that, as the Holt siblings are passed around and handed drinks. Pidge claims the last double bed and firmly closes the door as soon as her bag is set down. Matt’s own overnight luggage is mysteriously MIA.

Eventually Lance’s beer supply dwindles to nothing, and he’s forced to venture outside. He makes the mistake of assuming the alcohol in his blood will keep him warm, and when he steps out coat-less, the chill ensnares him in an instant.

“Oh f-f-fuck,” he whispers as he goes to step onto the driveway and promptly slides into lunge position.

Somewhere behind him, Ezor bursts out laughing, and Lance turns slowly on the spot with his arms huddled tight to glower. She stands just outside the front door, all bundled up, Narti just as cozy beside her. They’re both grinning at him.

“What’s that you got there?” asks Lance, narrowing his eyes at the glowing ember between Narti’s fingers.

Ezor plucks it from her friend. “You want a pull or three?”

“...Yes,” says Lance, even though he usually ends up coughing up his lungs and then, later on, his stomach.

It’s freezing, and the smoke does nothing to warm him, but it makes it a little less of a bother. Ezor starts gabbing on about the latest gossip while Narti occasionally flicks out some sign language. Lance has no idea what she’s saying, but he doesn’t have to when it’s paired with smirks and the huff of a laugh, and Ezor’s raucous cackles. Lance learns that “Lotty” has been whining about something or other (he honestly clocks out halfway through that tirade), Narti is top bitch in her class (AKA graduating with honours), and that the last time they all went out to the bar, Allura had repelled all men with a flick of her wrist and a flash of the glittering rock on her ring finger.

“Obnoxious,” declares Ezor, “but efficient.”

Eventually Lance returns inside, fumbling two beers from his car in numb arms. Shiro and Zethrid are having an arm wrestling match on the coffee table while Matt eggs them on, the Clue board pinned beneath their elbows. On the couch, Acxa and Plaxum have their heads together, murmuring to each other. When Lance goes to the fridge to drop off his second extra beer, the first clutched in fingers so cold they’re burning, he notices Lotor and Pidge hunched over something sitting on the stove.

“You animals!” cries Allura, bursting from the bathroom. Lance realizes it’s the shepherd’s pie, and Lotor and Pidge only spoon it faster into their mouths. “Put it onto some plates, you savages! Oh my god, why are you like this?”

“Nothing I do while under the influence,” protests Lotor with surprising clarity considering the amount of mashed potato in his gob, “is reflective of who I am as a person.”

“Less talking, more shovelling,” splutters Pidge, far less eloquently.

Lance squeezes by them just before Allura can descend. The expression of her fury tends to get more creative when she’s had something to drink—or heaven forbid, something of Narti’s.

He takes his beer into the bathroom, closing the door and exhaling when the noise of the party is muted by wood. It’s moments like these that he realizes just how inebriated he is: swaying in front of the toilet, drinking from a frothing can of beer and one-handedly trying to aim. In the end, he has the presence of mind to take a seat. The last thing he wants to do is piddle on the floor. He’d probably forget to mop it up.

While his bladder takes ages to empty itself, Lance replaces beer with phone and squints at the screen.

* * *

★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★

 

» The cottage comes rolling into view, with Matt saying offscreen, “Is this it? Eleven-ten? I swear to the almighty infant Jesus above that if I have to turn around _again_ —”

 

» A jerky video zooming in on Lotor hovering around the pie and casting surreptitious glances about. Pidge snickers from behind the camera. Shiro’s voice asking off-screen, “What are you squatting on the stairs for?”

 

**Bees?**

Eat whatever that is

Lasagna??

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

eat it

 

**The Devil Herself**

shepperds pie!!!

Shepherds pie*

 

» Keith’s rabbit bopping around the dog bed and performing a front flip before freezing, as if astonished at its own expertise. The camera shakes as Keith giggles.

 

» Lance from the shoulders up, beaming down at the phone.

Caption: party piss!!!!!!

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

nice

you high?

 

**Me**

u kno it babb

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

didnt you tell us to tell you to not do that while drunk

 

**Me**

ye

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

and you did it anyway

 

**Me**

ye

ily

 

**Bees?**

I hate to say this but I’m so glad that’s not my problem :)))

 

**Me**

>;000

 

» A jerky zoom in on the closed bathroom door—Allura shouting about pie in the background—before Pidge suddenly rushes forward and throws it open. Lance gapes at her from where he’s seated on the toilet, phone in hand. Pidge shouts giddily, “Unbelievable! It’s rude to shit at a party! Lance what the hell!”

 

» “Fake friends,” Lance is saying, “I’ve got the fakiest of friends—” and then the sound of the door slamming open and Lance nearly dropping his phone as Pidge shouts, “Unbelievable! It’s rude—”

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

L M A O

* * *

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

 

**Me**

hey

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

hey

 

**Me**

ur still awake????

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

yeah

you still drunk?

 

**Me**

hammerd

this is ur obligatroy drunk text via bestiie that i miss u u lil shitfuck

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

thanks lance

just a couple more days

think you can handle being sober for that long?

 

**Me**

no

tomoro will b worse

bcos coran

and SLaV

typgni harrrd holdd on

 

» Lance’s face shoved into a couch cushion, only half visible until he moves his head to speak, “‘M gonna die, fam.”

 

» Keith sitting up in bed, a map up on the bare brick wall behind him. “You’ve got a lot of people there, it’ll be fine.”

 

» “It’ll be fine, says the most introverted introvert to ever introvert.”

 

» Keith wrinkles his nose. “Not true, but that _is_ why I said you’ll have a buffer.”

 

» “Do you think anyone can stop Slav from speaking quantum physics to me? My listening face is too good, and I’m too nice to tell him I hate it when he speaks.”

 

» “You’re so dramatic. Just glue yourself to Pidge. They’ll start arguing, and you can run.”

 

» “Solid plan. This is why I keep you around.” A pause. There’s the distant sound of someone blowing up an air mattress. “This weekend would be so much better with you around.”

 

» “What about Hunk?” Keith is grinning, the angle of his phone slightly different as though trying to hide it. “I think it’s better we don’t party together too often. Remember the wedding?”

 

» “Uhh, did you mean the best night of _my life?_ C’mon dude—” Lance’s voice lowers when he realizes he’s talking loud, “—we _make_ the party.”

 

» “Right. Well.” Keith blinks slowly at the screen for a long moment, his expression softening. “You should sleep. It’s nearly four. Marzipan says good night, too.” He turns his phone around to show the bunny, nose wiggling in her sleep as she lays in Keith’s lap.

 

» Lance, incredibly dewy-eyed, croons, “I’m going to legit cry. Tell her I love her. I love you Lorazepam, you’re the best. Good night. And good night to you, too, Keith. I guess.” His tired snicker is cut short.

* * *

They rarely call each other. Lance likes to see Keith’s face, and Keith always plays along. They never video call—that’s on Lance, too. He’s afraid of what he might accidentally say or splutter or what his expression might become should he forget that Keith can _see_. Snapchats allow him to check what he’s sending first. Keith plays along with this as well, no matter how foolish it is.

But when Lance blearily opens his eyes after four hours of sleep, he kind of wishes he had the guts to ask Keith if he could stay on the line until sleep takes him. Not because Lance has trouble sleeping—quite the opposite—but rather because he wants to hear Keith’s voice and the sounds of his breathing. See the flutter of tired eyelashes in his dreams.

Greedily, he wants more.

In the morning, with a pasty mouth and a dry throat, Lance climbs over the air mattress Plaxum chose to sleep on to get to the bathroom. When he makes it upstairs, Pidge is curled up asleep on the armchair, upright as if awake. She probably was, ten minutes ago—Lance sees her phone ready to drop from her sagging hand, and moves forward to set it on the coffee table. He looks down at his own phone while poking around for a clean glass.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Hunk stands beside his gas range with a frying pan full of something tasty, positively glowing with a deer filter.

Caption: Good morning!!

 

» A rather sneaky and unsteady video of an oblivious Matt collecting clementines from the table before he slips back inside Shiro and Allura’s room.

Caption: Um?

 

**Bees?**

Slumber party??

 

**The Devil Herself**

I don’t even know anymore

 

» An image of Pidge sleeping in the armchair.

Caption: i cant believ i missed matt bein a +1

 

» Another of Lance looking groggy-eyed but covering half his face with a peace sign.

Caption: also good mornin crew

 

» The most darling of bunnies nibbling a bundle of dark greens.

Caption: morning

 

» You took a screenshot! «

* * *

Lance is peeling himself a clementine and a tangerine and comparing them once and for all when Allura makes her appearance. With eyes still shut, she twists her hair up into a self-sustaining bun, grunts a greeting to Lance, and proceeds to bump into the fridge. Lance continues to chip away at the rind while Allura fetches hashbrowns from the freezer drawer and lays them out on a baking sheet.

“So,” says Lance as she puts a carton of eggs out on the counter. “Bed was roomy?”

Allura tenses for barely a second before saying, “I guess.”

Lance doesn’t push it. His fruits are nearly perfectly peeled, all that extra string painstakingly plucked away. He picks up a slice of the clementine, chews, considers, and then does the same to the tangerine. A seed instantly crunches between his molars.

“What’s the verdict?” asks Allura.

Lance points at the tangerine. “Bad.”

“Why?”

“Seeds.”

Allura snorts and swipes the tangerine. Apparently she doesn’t have an issue with unwelcome citrus nuts. Lance is happy to leave it to her as he focuses his attentions on the blessedly seedless clementine. When the oven dings to let Allura know it’s time to flip the hashbrowns, Matt and Shiro come slothing out of the bedroom. Matt collapses onto the couch, while Shiro pops into the bathroom and returns looking ready for the day. Lance keeps his silence. He finishes his fruit before hunting down a frying pan to get started on scrambled eggs.

By the time breakfast is ready, almost everyone has risen and crowded onto the available seating space. Someone has moved a sprawling Matt to the floor, forcing anyone who wants to get to the coffee table to tip toe over his tangled legs. Lance nearly drops his tea on the guy. It’s when they’re finishing licking salt off fingertips and making fun of those that doused their eggs in ketchup that Ezor bursts in through the side door in a flurry of snow.

“There’s a treehouse,” she says, and everyone piles on boots and mitts and hats and coats to run outside.

“What is up with your boots?” splutters Lance when they’re all outside and he looks down at Pidge’s feet.

She sticks out a foot, the lip of a plastic bag jutting out of her ratty boot. “They’re not waterproof, okay?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be an engineer?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a diplomat?”

“Touché,” says Lance, since both of them might have degrees, but neither have jobs in a related field. Even Allura and Shiro, the most successful pair of real adults Lance has ever seen, are being forced to cross several provinces to the west just to get the experience all the jobs require beyond just a bachelors degree.

Still, he doesn’t hold back when Pidge is walking ahead of him and he’s got a clear line of sight to the back of her head. The snow is perfect when he packs it into a ball, and his aim so spot on that Pidge doesn’t even bother whipping around to see who did it. Instead, she immediately goes for her own ammunition. Lance ducks; Allura doesn’t take too kindly to getting snow all down her collar. Shiro suffers for it, as does Matt, and then they’re not so much walking on the road as sporadically sprinting and diving down it.

There’s a hill of sorts, formed by snow plow, at the end of the road. Everyone but Lance, Pidge and Allura end up behind it, using it as a base to whale on those exposed. Then Lance tosses a weak snowball at the heavy boughs of the pine above them, and a dozen pounds of snow cascade down. Team Sharpshooter takes the victory.

* * *

“What does that even _mean?”_ wonders Ezor when they continue walking, reading a wooden sign on a tree stating “ _In case of harassment, throw stick in the river_ ”.

Lance peers down the shallow bank that leads to the river’s icy edge. All the docks that have been pulled up onto dry land now sit covered in a foot of snow.

“I’m assuming that only works in the summer,” he says.

“What does throwing a stick _do?”_

Plaxum walks up beside them. “Maybe if someone further down sees the stick they...come running?”

“Do people just stare at the water all day then? Just in case?” Ezor glares at the sign like it’s of personal offence and hisses, “That makes no sense.”

“Maybe,” says Lance, “there’s dogs about. You toss the stick, and the dog goes jumping into the water. Problem solved.”

“That sounds incredibly flawed,” notes Plaxum. “Plus, it wouldn’t be my first thought.”

“What would you do? Punch the dog in the face?”

“Yes?”

Ezor looks appreciatively at Plaxum. “You know what? I like you.”

“For theoretical violence against animals,” says Plaxum dryly. “Thanks.”

Lance shakes his head. “I can’t believe Plax is up for fistfighting a pup.”

“If it’s _attacking_ me.”

“Sure, Plax,” says Lance as he lifts his phone up. “Sure.”

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Plaxum with her fluffy hair crammed under a red toque, torn between looking amused and unimpressed. The wooden sign is visible over her shoulder.

Caption: the face of a woman who would fight a dog

 

**Bees?**

:0!!

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

the face of a criminal

 

» A still shot of Lance about to slam dunk an armful of snow onto Lotor’s head. The victim in question is utterly oblivious, although Acxa and Zethrid both wear twin expressions of horror.

Caption: He didn’t make it.

 

» A snowbank, with a single foot cresting the top.

Caption: Lance, I mean.

 

» A photo of Ezor taking a photo of Lotor crouching by the foot, arms crossed and flicking peace signs.

Caption: He’s a sore winner.

 

» Pacman uncontrollably guz took a screenshot! «

 

» Pacman uncontrollably guz took a screenshot! «

 

» Pacman uncontrollably guz took a screenshot! «

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

a+ plot and execution

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate alternate title: parties are confusing hot messes and bwyn tries to write them as such and just ends up confusing everyone and herself
> 
> also note in later chapters there will be More Drugs (MDMA) and some upchucking but it won't be graphic and i'll mention it at the beginning of the chapter in question


	2. that one shia labeouf meme you know the one except it's nickelback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [roadtrip jam playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/bitterbeetle/playlist/4Cf2Bw5inmOD87im8nqqee?si=ESM8goxzSRGqos7UPGEU_g)   
>  [and my writing playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/bitterbeetle/playlist/4AsjYMeDKcvduuI4TcYVGo?si=jdLCoMsYR2aAFq7XT-jg1w)

It’s not until Lance sets his beer on the counter and tries to open it that he realizes something is very wrong.

“It’s frozen,” Plaxum notes as thick froth spills out over Lance’s fingers.

“Hm. That is a shame.”

“You...left it outside?”

“In my car,” affirms Lance as he drops the solid can in the sink and rinses his hands. “Shit.”

“I see. Well.” She casts a surreptitious look around. Everyone else is hovering over the coffee table or outside getting the barbecue going. “There’s a bottle of wine, if you want it.”

“I won’t take your own precious booze from you,” sighs Lance sadly.

“No, no—” A wide smile splits her face. She edges around the island to reach above the fridge. When her heels touch ground, she’s holding a bottle of white wine. “It says we can help ourselves.”

Lance blinks at the beacon of hope. “What says?”

“The note left behind by the homeowners,” says Plaxum, twisting off the cap. “Bless them, honestly.”

“Honestly,” agrees Lance.

They split the wine between themselves, though it’s Lance that ends up consuming the majority of it. Plaxum keeps mixing her own with juice. They’re toasting each other for the third time when Lance’s phone goes off for the umpteenth. He finally caves and has a look while Plaxum drains her glass.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Matt hovers around a barbecue, shivering in the cold and waving a lighter as he says, “What the hell is this contraption?” Shiro appears in the frame to take the lighter and say, “Maybe it’s best if you just go back inside.”

Caption: PhD student Matthew Franz Holt can’t figure out a BBQ pass it on.

 

» Hunk holding a match up to his gas range to light it in a plume of blue and purple flame.

Caption: PhD redacted

 

» Flashing emergency lights and bumper to bumper traffic.

Caption: ah……..ottawa……..

 

» A slow drive by of the scene. A pick-up is missing its door and the headlight of an Audi is caved in. Keith huffs a laugh and his breath frosts visibly.

Caption: how do you fuck up that bad

 

**Me**

ramming speed

also bruh take a got dang cab it’s too cold to drive in a car without fukkin heat!!

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

not until ive bought the love of ym life supper

 

**Me**

thE whAT of ur WHA

oh

OH LROZAPEM

lorazepam

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

dude

 

**Me**

lmao whew

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

im gonna tell her you forgot her

 

**Me**

dont u fukkin dare

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

shes gonna be so sad

 

**Me**

sTOP!!!!!!

* * *

“So, who is it?”

“Huh?” Lance looks up at Plaxum.

She smiles slightly. “The person you keep messaging.”

“Oh, it’s—it’s just a group chat.” So he says, but his neck feels oddly warm.

Plaxum makes a thoughtful humming sound, and then suddenly her face is centimeters from Lance’s. He jerks back, startled. Her tight, frizzy curls tickle his face.

“To me,” she says, “you look all giddy. There are apples in your cheeks.”

“Apples—?” Lance splutters. “I don’t even know what that _means.”_

“Do you fancy someone in that group chat of yours?”

The beat of silence, during which Lance forgets to breathe and his autonomic system forgets what a heartbeat is, provides Plaxum with all she needs.

“That’s great, Lance!” she says. If the cheer is forced, Lance can’t tell for sure. “Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible.”

He freezes, again, but for a different reason this time. “What?”

“I mean, that first time I kissed you,” she says sheepishly, “and you told me you were ace, I maybe...assumed that meant you didn’t... get crushes. I learned otherwise later,” she adds hastily. Lance doesn’t know what to say to that, so Plaxum plows on, “But you never really mentioned anyone ever? Seriously, I mean, I’m not talking about your weird thing for Taika Waititi. So I kinda thought you were maybe just not into that.”

As she spoke, the space between them grew until her hair no longer brushed against Lance’s chin. He isn’t sure whether he should be relieved she doesn’t equate asexuality to aromanticism—or annoyed, that she thinks it’s “great” he can get crushes, like it’s a _relief._ He swallows against the sharp heat of his ire.

“Yeah, I um—” He breaks off to take a hearty gulp of wine, drawing confidence from the entirely different heat it provides his gut. “I have feelings for someone, sure.”

Plaxum waits a moment before prompting, “Who?”

Lance’s gaze flicks down to the bottle. “Keith.”

“Keith,” repeats Plaxum. “I don’t think I’ve met him?”

“Nah, he lives in Ottawa. He was at the wedding though.”

“Oh, I see. How’d you meet?”

Lance shifts, says, “Online, five years ago” instead of explaining the months of vitriolic back and forth following a single game of Halo—that turned into two into ten into fifty—until they were rivals across as many different games and platforms as they could get their hands on. Meeting Keith’s childhood friend, Pidge, at one of Allura’s Christmas parties only narrowed the gap from online rivals to face-to-face best friends. Since then, they’d gotten together a dozen times, with and without Pidge, with and without Hunk, who had taken to these new friends of his kindergarten ride-or-die like a fish to water.

Plaxum, bless her, doesn’t scoff, but surprises Lance with, “Oh, cool! Swirn and I met online as well.”

When she smiles, Lance remembers the sharp eyes and jawline of the person he’s seen in some of her Instagram photos. They were always pressed rather close, and Plaxum with her wide smile and ruddy cheeks—oh, that’s what she meant by apples.

“The future is now,” says Lance. “Soon, we won’t be forced to see _anyone_ face-to-face.”

Plaxum laughs. “Don’t say it like socializing is a bad thing! You can’t drink with friends online!”

“You clearly haven’t tried hard enough,” grins Lance, but he downs his glass and refills it nevertheless.

At the coffee table, Pidge suddenly crows in delight. There’s a television screen in the corner. Since it isn’t connected to a box, nobody had bothered to use it—until now. Pidge has her phone screen mirrored on the television. Lance already knows to brace himself for humiliation when she navigates to her camera roll and scrolls down towards the less savoury content (ie. blackmail material that isn’t quite ripe for usage. Greymail material, perhaps).

She stops at the wedding pictures and videos. “Are y’all ready for this?”

“No,” says Lance from the kitchen.

“Let us witness Lance’s speech!”

“Oh my god.”

“ _Sup fam and family—”_

“Turn it off, I beg you!”

But even those that already experienced his speech (hastened by a mimosa at the end of the ceremony, two vodka cranberries during cocktail hour, and three glasses of white wine throughout dinner) are ecstatic to hear it again, leaving Lance to cradle his head in embarrassment while Plaxum laughs and pats his shoulder.

Unfortunately that isn’t the last laugh they have at his expense, but he isn’t the only one. Pidge unashamedly shows off her own selfies, progressively more drunk and usually hanging off someone or something. The DJ gets their own dozen in a row. They watch Allura and Shiro’s first dance, and Alfor stumbling over his daughter’s magnificent dress. Hunk and Pidge’s tango; the conga line; Coran and Sven drawing diagrams on napkins; Slav passed out beside a mound of table cloth. Then there’s Keith and Lance, barefoot with their pant legs rolled up, soaked through from the downpour that started halfway through the night. Lance ruined his suit, but he doesn’t regret it. He can’t help but laugh when he sees that wet mop of black hair frozen mid-headbang.

Pidge snorts at the next one. “Now _whomst_ the hell is this?”

It’s very obviously a picture containing Matt, sitting to one side as Ezor and Lance grab sodden handfuls of Allura’s dress to dance with. His bowtie is undone, one finger hooked in his collar. He looks downright dejected.

“That’s me,” chirps Matt, entering with Shiro in a waft of frigid air and barbecue smell. “Pre-character development.”

“Why do you look so _emo?”_

“Vodka, probably.”

“Heads up,” declares Pidge, gesturing for everyone to look at Matt. “Nobody give this kid vodka, he gets all depressed afterwards.”

“And don’t give Pidge Jaeger,” says Matt wryly.

There’s a round of murmured agreement—nobody wants to witness Combative Pidge again. She rolls her eyes and pokes to the next picture: Allura swooping upon Matt like some vengeful swan.

Lance pretends not to see the way Shiro’s thumb rubs a tender circle on Matt’s shoulder.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» A video of Keith trying to eat butter chicken for lunch, and Marzipan lunging for his plate. “You are _not_ a carnivore! Stop that! Down!”

 

» A close-up of Marzipan’s paw, smudged with orange sauce.

Caption: a criminal

 

**Bees?**

Don’t rabbits eat insects???

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

nah shes supposed to be 100% herbivore

 

**Me**

give lorzaepam the bird keith,,,,

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

i refuse

 

**Me**

gIVE THE GOOD GIRL tH E BIR D!!!!!

 

» A jerky zoom in on Lance’s face as he passionately types on his phone. Pidge asks, “You good, Lance?” and Lance replying, “Gucci, if Keith would treat Lorazepam how she ought to be treated!”

Caption: Y’all are fucking weird.

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

she will not eat the bird!!!!!!!

 

**Me**

>:000

 

» A poorly lit video being taken from the backseat of a car. Plaxum’s fluffy hair is visible in the driver’s seat while Matt fiddles with his ushanka in the passenger’s. Abruptly someone in the backseat shouts, “I forgot my fucking grass!” and then Pidge groaning, “We’re not going back for your weed, Ezor.”

Caption: ya boi picked the wrong car

 

» Everyone in the car screaming as Plaxum fishtails out onto the highway.

Caption: lmao rip in piss fam

 

» “ _‘Cause we all just wanna be big rock stars and live in hilltop houses driving fifteen cars. The girls come easy and the drugs come cheap AND WE ALL STAY SKINNY ‘CAUSE WE JUST WON’T EAT—”_ “Matt, did you just say the girls come cheap?” “... _HANG OUT AT THE COOLEST BARS_ —”

 

» Unidentifiable guitar rift. Slow pan over to Lance staring at Pidge from across a headbanging Ezor.

Caption: Punk Goes Pop: T Swift edition oh my god

 

» “— _EVERY TIME WE TOUCH, I GET THIS FEELING, EVERY TIME WE KISS I SWEAR I COULD FLY! CAN’T YOU FEEL MY HEART BEAT FAST, I WANT THIS TO LAST, NEED YOU BY MY SIDE—”_

 

» _“—CALL MY NAME AND SAVE ME FROM THE DARK—”_

 

» “ _Mama...just—”_

 

» “— _SO MUCH TO DO, SO MUCH TO SEE—”_

 

» “— _you get SPRUNG—”_

* * *

They enter the brewery in a cloud of snow and the carefully excited steps of those who’ve once before met their end via slushy floors. It’s mostly merchandise at the front end, advertising their various brews via displays on Muskoka chairs and rope hammocks.

The group pass the wall of beer fridges while making a beeline for the pub section. The long room, with its vaulted ceiling, is made up of round tables and an extended bar. Many of the seats are taken, but several tables are open near the end closest to them, by the stage. Some familiar faces are already there.

“Shay!” cries Lance, bounding forward to fling his arms around the tall woman’s neck. “I’ve missed your face!”

She laughs and hugs him back with enough zeal to lift his feet off the ground. “And I yours!”

Behind them, the other members of the car ride over are greeting Shay’s brother, Rax, far more calmly. Both siblings tower over the rest, excluding Zethrid who still manages to top them by an inch. When Shay releases him, Lance excitedly claps her arm.

“You’re coming back with us, right? There’s space for more!”

“That is the plan,” says Shay. “We have an air mattress in the car.”

“That’s fine,” says Pidge, coming over to greet Shay. “I took the double bed last night but you and Rax can share it.”

Lance barely holds his tongue. It’s tough, when his wit often outruns his filter, but this time he manages not to quip about any lack of bedsharing with Hunk—it tends to get weird when one remembers that both Balmera siblings have a crush on the same person. It’s probably for the best that Hunk moved to Halifax, if just to avoid that kind of tension.

The rest of the caravan eventually arrives and those not designated drivers are swooping in for beer when the stars of the show appear. Coincidentally, Pidge has vanished, so when the Big Three walk in Lance has no one to use as a buffer—besides Shay, who suffers the same Too Nice To Avoid Syndrome as Lance.

He’s not even surprised when a hand pokes out of the crowd of greeting bodies to merge two drops of condensation on the table. The hand is followed by a short arm and sloped shoulders and a deceptively smooth face with the objectively worst toothbrush/soul patch facial hair combo Lance has ever seen.

“Hey Slav,” says Lance.

“And greetings to you!” Slav doesn’t sit at the table, but ends up occupying a lone Muskoka nearby, forcing Lance and Shay to twist in their seats to talk to him. “How are the beers brewed here, do you know?”

“Uh, no idea,” says Lance.

“But I’m sure we could ask an employee,” suggests Shay.

“Hm, no, that’s—Oh no, Allura’s hair—that one curl is—” He breaks off and squeezes his eyes shut. Lance takes the opportunity to shift until his body blocks the bulk of Allura’s hair. He knows it won’t really help, but at least he tried. “What a tragedy, what an absolute tragedy. Their honeymoon will end in _ruin_ —”

“They already had their honeymoon,” interrupts Lance. “Three months ago.”

Slav’s eyes shoot open. “Oh, well then. Her errant curls are free! Reality saved!” He chuckles.

When Pidge returns to the table, it’s with a meter of beer and napkins for Slav to fold into boats. Only once he’s done and all the condensation on the tabletop has been soaked up does he relax in his seat (something about beached boats at low tide boding well for the musically inclined). It’s been several years since Lance met Slav, and he still has no idea how the man so seamlessly combines quantum physics and homemade superstitions in his life.

“Well if it isn’t my favourite protege!” Allura’s red-haired godfather appears with another meter of beer.

“You flatter me, Coran,” beams Pidge.

“I flatter no one but Alfor when he asks for my opinion on his clothes.” Coran sets down the beer and perches himself on the arm of Lance’s chair, immediately drawing Shay into a conversation about her knitting designs.

Matt and Shiro are up on stage, setting up amps and microphones. The third member of the Big Three, Shiro’s older cousin Sven, carries his stand-up bass onto the low stage. When Matt has the microphone low enough that he can sit on his cajón, he gives the wire mesh a tap.

“Excuse me, friends, family, and frenemies,” he says with a sideways glance at Sven that causes the other man to laugh jovially. “I’d like to thank you all for coming out to this humble brewery in wee Gravenhurst. This is going to be our last hoorah before ending up on separate sides of the country, so we’ll be making it a good one! We’ve got a line-up of songs to play for you, but first shall we introduce ourselves to those who may lack the joys of our friendship?”

He swings out an arm, nearly smacking Shiro in the leg. “Our guitarist, harmonica-ist, vocalist—what am I saying? He’s our jack-of-all-trades, Shiro!”

Pidge and Lance begin thumping on the table, echoed by Allura at another, until Shiro plays a diddy on his guitar. The crowd cheers and he looks away, embarrassed and laughing.

“And, of course,” says Matt once the noise has died down, “what would we sound like without our hunky back-up vocals, and master of the stand-up bass? Let’s give it up for Sven!”

They barely hear the deep thrum of Sven’s bass over Ezor and Zethrid’s particularly raucous cheers.

“And how could we forget? The glue that keeps us together, the keeper of beats, your token megane—”

“ _Weeb_ ,” shouts Pidge.

“—it is I,” announces Matt, lifting his hands into the air with solemn pride, “Matthew Holt.”

Lance cups his hands around his mouth. “What a hunk!”

“Thank you, thank you, I’ll be signing autographs later—”

“Start the music already!” yells Ezor.

“So impatient! Fine! Together, we are the Rebel Lions. Shiro, if you would.”

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Matt starts off tapping a beat on his cajón, before Sven and Shiro join in and the latter is leaning close to the microphone: “I’m through with standin’ in lines to clubs I’ll never get in—”

Caption: this is surreal

* * *

Three songs later, the men pause for a beer break. Lance orders nachos and guacamole while Pidge polishes off her first beer on the meter, initiating a discussion on flavour between herself and Coran, who has moved to perch on the arm of her chair instead.

Lance, crunching away on chips, feels a nudge against his elbow and turns to give Shay his attention.. “Mm?”

“Can I be blunt?” she asks, shifting slightly in her seat.

Lance blinks at her, then nods.

“I have a question. About Hunk, actually.” Her voice lowers when she mentions the name.

Lance quickly finishes his mouthful and wipes crumbs away with the back of his hand. “Oh, yeah, for sure. What’s up?”

Beyond them, Sven plucks an idle beat on his bass. Shay uses this as an excuse to glance away, not meeting Lance’s eyes.

“Would he happen to be seeing anyone?”

Lance hesitates. “He—uh—no? No, he’s not.”

He braces himself for the glimmer of hope to extinguish when he has to tell her that Hunk isn’t up for long distance—or the whole awkward siblings with a common crush thing—but instead Shay frowns.

“Why not?” she asks.

“Um.” Lance’s head lists to one side. “He’s...I don’t know? Just not. I guess?”

“Is there no one he likes? There must be.” Shay’s frown only deepens. “I cannot imagine no one else showing interest. He deserves so much.”

“Wait, I thought you—?”

Shay shakes her head emphatically. “Oh no, we have already talked. Just because I care about him does not mean I do not want to see him happy with someone else.”

“Oh.” Lance’s thoughts drift immediately to Keith, and picturing him holding hands with someone else and laughing and—Yeah, no, Lance doesn’t think he could wholeheartedly support the breaking of his own heart. He casts his gaze down at his guac, ashamed. Some friend he is.

“He has a lot of love to give,” sighs Shay, “so I was hoping that he might have found somebody willing to give back just as much, if not more.”

“That’s really good of you, Shay.”

“Good of me?” Lance peeks up to see her giving him an odd look. “Is that not how friends are?”

The words are kind coming from Shay, but they spear Lance in the chest regardless. His skin prickles uncomfortably. Suddenly he wants to run away if only to escape her expectant gaze.

“Yeah,” says Lance haltingly, focusing on a droplet of condensation rolling down the side of Pidge’s glass. “I guess. Yeah.”

For a moment, Shay says nothing and Lance thinks he’s been caught. His suspicions are confirmed when she says softly, “Jealousy is common, I did not mean to imply otherwise.”

Lance fights back a grimace, but he feels his eyebrow twitch and he _knows_ Shay sees it.

“That’s...not it,” he says. “Or maybe it is.”

“You have someone you care for,” says Shay with a nod, “and you wish to be the one to care for him. I understand that, of course I do, but you would not stop him from finding his happiness elsewhere if that was what was best for him.”

It isn’t a question, and Lance opens his mouth, but he can’t deny it either.

“You are a good friend to have,” she continues. “He would be lucky to have you as a partner.”

Gazing back down at the condensation, Lance can only burn more under her scrutiny. The desire to flee is still strong, but it hasn’t overwhelmed him yet. Hurriedly, he scrambles for something to say—anything really—but nothing is coming to mind besides nervous giggles and the idea to impulsively upend Shay’s cider. That wouldn’t play out well.

Then he freezes. “ _He?”_

“The two of you would make a good pair.” Shay tips her head with a small smile. “I saw you at the wedding, after all. He looks at you like they look at each other,” she says with a nod towards the stage.

Lance stares at her as his brows slowly pull together. On the stage, the trio are chugging back their ales to the egging of their friends. Feeling distinctly lost, Lance says, “Sorry, just how does he look at me?”

But Shay doesn’t seem to hear him. “I am only concerned whether he may have romantic inclinations at all.”

Lance whips his gaze back to Shay as the bottom of his stomach falls away. “Wha—?”

He’s interrupted by the slamming of twin glasses on the table. Both he and Shay jump and gape at Pidge and Coran, who are crowing their glee at whatever beer they had apparently just finished chugging.

“Best one yet!” declares Pidge.

“Agreed,” says Coran. “Hints of apple, a spicy aftertaste, that light but lingering aroma… Slav, my dear friend, you _must_ try this.”

“I would—if you’d left any, old friend.”

“We’ll be ordering a pint each of this delightfully bad boy!”

Pidge already has the fourth glass of the meter to her lips. “Not till we judge the rest of these suckers.”

Lance turns back to Shay, who has a hand pressed to her heart. “You, uh, were saying?” he prompts.

“What _was_ I saying?” murmurs Shay, frowning down at her cider before grabbing it and finishing it off.

Lance watches her do so as he sighs. “Nevermind.”

“If you’re sure.”

“For sure for sure,” Lance confirms. He doesn’t think he can handle another conversation like that, regardless of whether he even understood what direction it was going in. “D’you want to play a boardgame or something?”

Shay lights up. “Ooh! What do they have?”

* * *

Lance flicks the little wood puck and watches it bounce off a peg, hip check Shay’s piece out of bounds, before settling with a satisfying clatter into the center target. Shay wrinkles her nose at his beaming expression and lines up her next shot. Over her shoulder, the band members prepare their instruments. Sven plucks his bass a few times while Matt bobs his head to a beat Lance can’t hear.

Beside them, Pidge and Coran have finished their row of half pints and have since claimed full pints of whatever spicy apple thing they declared the best earlier, with a third for a curious Slav.

“Fudgebuckets,” mutters Shay, bringing Lance’s attention back to the board. “Your go.”

“Hah.” Lance lines up another shot and snipes Shay’s attempt at blocking his entry into the inner ring. She drains her cider as he says, “You’re pretty bad at crokinole.”

“You are just too good,” retorts Shay. “I like to think my hand-eye coordination and motor skills are average.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet,” says Lance, cheerfully and systematically knocking the rest of her pucks off the board.

The amp on stage twinges with the first note of Shiro’s guitar as the singer leans towards the mic and says, “This is for some of the most important people in my life.”

Shay tries and fails to hit another of Lance’s pieces as Shiro strums the next few notes. It’s vaguely familiar, though Lance has no idea what the lyrics are or where he even heard it. Still, it’s catchy, and he finds his heel bouncing on the floor.

“Oh for the love of—” mutters Shay when Lance sinks another puck in the center target.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Halfway through the first chorus, Shiro points at Allura and she gets up to dance in front of the stage.

 

» Allura pulling Matt from his cajón. Despite losing their drummer, the band continues playing, though Shiro does end up fumbling a few lyrics in his mirth. The camera zooms in on Allura and Matt dancing terribly.

 

» An image of Shay staring down at the crokinole table with her brow furrowed deeply.

Caption: git shrekttttt

 

» A wide shot of the band playing a cover of No Scrubs before shooting suddenly to where Allura is flashing her glittering ring.

 

» Blurily passing by Muskoka chairs into an unfamiliar hall and Lance’s voice, “I gotta peeeee—”

 

**The Devil Herself**

Where the hell are you Lance!!!!!!

Oh he’s pissing

Lmao

 

» A close-up video of Pidge’s face, her breath fogging the camera: “He’s pissin’ and I’m not and frankly I could go for a tinkle but I could also chug this uhh—shit, um, Coran— _Oh!_ ”

 

» Pidge’s nose comes into focus as she says, with shocking clarity, “Ich trinke ein— a— un mètre de bière.” And Coran’s voice in the background, “Who are you talking to?”

 

» “—where I would steer from the passenger side, while you slip your bra from your ripped t-shirt.” Shiro laughs into the mic, clearly several beers in and as ecstatic to be on stage performing as the rest of the band. “‘Cause it’s hot as a mother, got sweat on each other—”

* * *

The evening—at the brewery at least—comes to a close after a rousing number that involves Coran as a guest singer and Slav whipping out a harmonica. Lance has no clue whether it’s the effects of alcohol, good company, or both, but it’s the best song of the night.

Lance is leaning against Shay—or she’s leaning against him. They’re forming a sort of triangle that turns into a pyramid with the addition of Ezor on one side and Pidge on the other. The latter is making use of the size difference to wedge herself between everyone else when Allura starts organizing rides home by planting her hand on selected persons’ heads.

“Y’all,” she declares with the exaggerated volume of someone who’s been forced to take on responsibility, “are coming with me.”

Lance feels her hand descend upon his head. Good. He feels safer already.

“Who got ducked?” asks Pidge.

“Not I,” says Shay.

“I did,” says Lance.

Ezor makes a hissing sound. “I didn’t. If this means I have to ride with Lotor I’m gonna _shit_ —”

“Why? What happened?” asks Pidge, but she doesn’t get an answer. Allura swoops in to herd them all into the biting cold along with Matt, who drapes over his sister like a second coat. Lance tries to wiggle his way between them to steal some heat, but the Holt siblings are nothing if not in sync, and they reject his thieving with vigor.

Allura is surprisingly tolerant with Lance filling the role of DJ for the short ride back to the cottage. She’s slightly less tolerant of Pidge and Matt protesting it at the same pitch as a jet engine. When they’re home, she ushers them through the door and whisks right back out to grab the next load of quasi-adults.

“Oh my _sweet baby Jesus_ ,” says Pidge, already swinging open the fridge. “Who’s up for some duckin’ _cannelloni?_ ”

“Must you even ask, sweet sister?”

Lance collapses on the couch. He feels a bit like he’s on the deck of a boat, bobbing gently up against the dock. It’s not an entirely pleasant sensation, so he sits upright and fiddles with his phone. Pidge took several snapchats of her beer-testing with Coran and Slav, but plenty more of their guest appearance alongside the band. Neither Keith nor Hunk have responded with anything but text amidst the flood Lance and Pidge provided for the night.

The door swings open just as Pidge connects her phone to the audio system, the first few lines of _Carry On Wayward Son_ playing over the sound of boots being hurriedly kicked off.

“So. Damn. _Annoying!”_ Ezor stomps up the stairs, so completely at odds with her usual light-footedness that Lance has to wince.

Acxa follows close behind with a knit brow. “He’s just in a mood.”

“Doesn’t mean he isn’t annoying,” Zethrid points out as she wrenches open the fridge to grab a beer.

Ezor slaps her hand down on the counter. “I don’t understand why he’s acting out! The night was going great!”

Lance slips off the couch to occupy the armchair beside the Christmas tree instead, giving him an unobstructed view of the floor. Pidge, tasting drama on the air, stands beside the oven—and by extension her cannelloni—as if to protect it.

While Narti takes a seat at the table to nibble on a brownie, Acxa casts an awkward glance around her at the rest of them. Lance tries to pretend like he has no idea what’s going on.

“He’s not having a great time of it,” says Acxa. “His parents, you know—”

“‘Kay,” Ezor cuts in, “there’s only so much I’ll let slide because his parents are being assholes. That doesn’t give him the right to be a dick, too.”

“Well, no, but don’t be too hard on him.”

Ezor shoots Acxa a cutting look. “I’m not going to coddle him. If he can’t take it then he can cry himself to sleep or some shit.”

“He doesn’t cr—” Axca’s mouth snaps shut. Her brow furrows, reminding Lance of when Keith pauses to reign in his temper. “Don’t say something you’ll regret.”

“But don’t miss out on saying something you gotta,” says Zethrid.

Narti lets out one of her breathy chuckles. The front door swings open again, and the house goes quiet except for the first few strums of Nickelback. Pidge’s hand slides into her pocket to skip to the next song.

Plaxum’s head appears over the banister first. Her eyes meet Lance’s.

She makes a beeline for him, crowding him against the armrest as she squeezes in and murmurs, “Worst car ride of my _life_.”

“Oh no,” says Lance.

* * *

  **★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Lotor walking towards the kitchen, radiating cold. Shiro and Allura shuffle off to where Matt has joined Pidge beside the oven. Watching Lotor and pretending as though she isn’t just as chilly, Ezor says, “You good?” Lotor pauses and says, “Good? Really?”

Caption: oh god oh god oh god

 

» “‘Kay, I was just wondering—” “Whatever, don’t waste your breath.” “What are you being so _rude_ for?” “If you wanted to avoid my _rudeness_ then you shouldn’t have said anything.” “Oh my _god_ , Lotor.”

Caption: not featured: me learnin deeply personal things abt lotors home life i dont think i ever wanted to know

 

» A picture of Lance and Plaxum, moustachioed via filter. Plaxum is looking away—presumably towards the kitchen—with a resigned expression and Lance just looks tired.

Caption: not featured: ezor tryna justify joking abt shitty things n lotor tryna justify his explosivly bad rxn

 

**Bees?**

Are you guys just...there??

 

**Me**

im sufferin

this is so awk

 

» A hasty zoom in on Pidge and Matt trapped in a corner wearing twin awkward expressions while Ezor gets louder and Lotor gets increasingly condescending.

Caption: look at em

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

i dont envy you

i cant even watch these all the way through theyre too cringy

 

**Me**

tru

i rly just want to be able to like

clip through the floor rn

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

sucks your graphics are too well rendered

 

**Me**

why couldnt my life be a bethesda game

 

» A mass of cream-coloured fur hides the fingers Keith has pressed against the fluffy’s rabbit’s side.

Caption: im living the bethesda dream

 

» You took a screenshot! «

 

» An out-of-focus Lotor vanishes downstairs, clearly fuming. Ezor mutters something that sounds rude as Acxa trots after Lotor.

 

» Another video courtesy of Pidge, Ezor’s voice rising with fresh irritation while she vents to Zethrid. Lotor’s voice carries from the staircase, “What point is there in talking behind my back when you could just say it to my face?” to which Ezor scoffs, loudly, “Stop playing the victim!”

 

» A close-up of the steaming cannelloni.

Caption: Respite.

 

» A video from Lance’s POV zooming in on Pidge and Matt hunkered over the cannelloni.

Caption: im comin for it

 

» The cannelloni is now on the countertop, surrounded on all sides by people with forks. Matt tries to block Shiro’s fork, only getting both of their bites stolen by Allura.

 

» A unsteady shot of Shay and Rax setting down boxes of pizza to loud cheers. The cannelloni pan has mysteriously vanished from the counter.

 

» Plaxum and Allura with Pidge, holding her captive as they pose for a giddy picture.

Caption: princess and princess and the frog

 

**The Devil Herself**

Hm?

Hmm?

HMMMMMMM?

 

» A selfie of Lance, his blank face covered in pizza sauce.

Caption: i repent

 

**Bees?**

You’re going to break out so bad D:

 

**Me**

whY WOLdU YOU SAY TAHT

im taking a shower

 

**The Devil Herself**

(:

* * *

Lance is clambering out of the shower when he hears his phone ping. He wraps his hips with a towel, pinning it to him by leaning against the sink. Dripping water still, he casually saves each of the selfies Keith sends him—exclusively to him, as if that means anything—posing with Marzipan. He coos at how cute the rabbit is, and lets his eyes linger just long enough on Keith that Lance convinces himself the other man can see him staring. Heart suddenly thumping louder than necessary, Lance lifts the phone and beams a smile at the camera.

He thinks his face is a bit too flushed, but it’s easy enough to blame the heat of the shower. With a quick caption declaring his undying devotion for the bunny, Lance sends it off. Water from his hair drips onto the screen.

He looks down at his bare chest, then up at the mirror. Water droplets are tracing a line from his jaw down to his collarbone.

In under a minute, Lance is relatively dry—but most importantly dressed—and scrambling to find Pidge. She’s eating yet more food in an empty kitchen. Plaxum is passed out at the coffee table, hunched over an unfinished game of cards, and there’s laughter outside, but Pidge is alone in her endeavour to empty the kitchen of all its edibles. Lance will worry about whether she broke into Narti’s brownies later. For now—

“I sent Keith a shower selfie.”

Pidge stares at him, a gummy worm hanging out of her mouth. “Pardon?”

“Isn’t that too much?” asks Lance in a panicked rush. “Oh god he’s going to think I’m trying to seduce him.”

“You took a selfie in the shower? And sent it to Keith?”

“No!”

“Then why—”

“I took a selfie _out_ of the shower and sent it to Keith.”

Pidge cocks an eyebrow. The gummy worm drops from her mouth.

Lance seizes her by the shoulders and gives her a shake. “What do I _do?_ What if he thinks I’m seducing him, Pidge?”

“You are though, aren’t you?” she points out, jabbing him in the belly to release her.

“Hrrk—No! Well, yes,” amends Lance, burning from the admission, “but emotionally! I’m emotionally seducing him and I can’t do that by sending him nude snaps!”

“Dude, they’re just your shoulders.” Pidge pauses before asking, “Right?”

Lance tries to swallow, but only succeeds in gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He nods mutely.

“Then it’s fine,” says Pidge with a dismissive wave. A handful of chips go into her mouth, crumbs flying. “He’s seen worse.”

“That’s not nearly as comforting as you might think,” says Lance hoarsely.

“Christ. Just send him a dick pic and be done with it.”

“ _Pidge!”_ Lance shrieks.

“ _Lanff!”_ she mocks amidst a treacherous mouthful of gummies and chips.

Only when a soggy crumb nails him on the freshly cleansed cheek does Lance leave his friend to her gluttony. His agonizing over so little a thing has drained him. Grabbing a glass of water, Lance shuffles to the sitting area. He drapes a spare blanket over Plaxum before allowing the cushions to engulf him.

And, just because he likes to torture himself, Lance checks his Snapchat. The hollow arrow indicating his last picture was seen is worrying, but less so than the fact that Lance never gets a reply.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's following you, about thirty feet back  
> He gets down on all fours and breaks into a sprint  
> He's gaining on you  
> (Chad Kroeger)


	3. a guide to (re)learning how to drive in snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with an update right around the time everyone should be out playing in the snow >:))
> 
>  
> 
> [road trip jams](https://open.spotify.com/user/bitterbeetle/playlist/4Cf2Bw5inmOD87im8nqqee?si=L8YW0fpnSGmrgMwUK7CalQ)  
> [writing playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/bitterbeetle/playlist/4AsjYMeDKcvduuI4TcYVGo?si=VfAczKDuTYe7A-CNOFfVJg)

Lance wakes up after a few hours sleep, bars of early morning light warming his feet. His mouth is dry and aching, his bladder is full, and the skin of his face is tight, but all is forgotten the moment he smells hashbrowns.

“Bless you,” croaks Lance as he forces himself to his feet.

Allura is in the kitchen, flipping hashbrowns to continue baking. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge too.”

“The one I—?”

“Flung across the room? Yes.”

“Why did you even  _ keep _ that thing,” mumbles Lance as he enters the bathroom.

After relieving himself of a litre of what used to be beer, washing his face, and dipping his head close as he can to the spout to drink—the effort to find an actual clean glass was, frankly, too much—Lance returns to find Allura preparing scrambled eggs.

“I help,” he mumbles, shuffling up to bump her shoulder.

“You help?”

“Oui.”

He takes the bowl from her and pries open the fridge with his toe. With a dollop of sour cream, he gives the eggs enough moisture that they won’t crisp up around the edges of the pan.

In the sitting area, Pidge is curled up in the armchair. Someone’s socks rest over her shoulder. On the Christmas tree are a number of pretzels posing as ornaments. From downstairs, Lance can hear the Balmera siblings’ snores, and soft murmuring in one of the bedrooms. It’s peaceful—for all of half an hour, in which time other bodies have risen at the promise of food. It gets loud fast; Lance wishes he could care as much as Pidge, who sleeps valiantly on until the stove clicks off. The telltale peace of sleep sticks to Lance and urges him to pursue quiet, which leads him to yank on his boots and step outside.

The sounds inside the house fade with each muted step Lance takes in the soft snow. By the time he reaches the treeline at the back of the yard, he can no longer hear the thud of a chair against laminate, the slam of the fridge door, someone’s laugh. Here, the air is still and quiet, the ground uneven beneath his feet, with hidden logs and divots of mulch smoothed over by a month of snowfall.

Inhaling a lungful of gentle frost, Lance embraces the peace. Untouched white calls to him; he falls backwards into it. Above, the sky is cool blue with smudges of clouds. He hums, but the sound doesn’t pair well with the quiet, so he doesn’t do it again.

It takes his phone buzzing in his pocket, and Pidge’s voice carrying from the house, to lure Lance away from the solitude. Better sooner than later, he thinks as he struggles like an upturned turtle. Sometimes moments of peace amidst swift-paced parties tempt him to forget how to socialize, and often turn the excited conversations of his friends into something alien. He can’t keep track of how many times he’s lost himself in introspection, wandering into empty rooms or empty parks because he made the mistake of pausing for too long a moment.

Amping himself up, Lance breathes in to deliberately taste the last of December on his tongue, and returns to the cottage.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» Supposedly a picture of the backyard, an optical illusion of white and brown, until there’s a mutter and a sharp  _ shh _ . Then, from the stillness, a doe hesitantly steps out from the treeline. Someone keens.

 

» There’s clearly a crowd around the kitchen window, their murmurs indecipherable. Lotor’s voice, “How long are you all going to stand there?” followed by Ezor’s, “Can you let us enjoy this? For once?” and Axca with an exasperated, “Play nice.”

 

» The deer is leisurely stepping through the snow, and then its head jerks up and ears fly forward. A rabbit struggles hopping through the snow on the other side of the yard. Everyone sighs in adoration.

 

» Keith and Marzipan, cheek to cheek, one of the bun’s soft ears tickling Keith’s squinting eye.

Caption: choose your rabbit

 

» You took a screenshot! «

 

» A much too brightly lit picture of the yard, with the starkly contrasting outline of Lance’s hand giving the wild rabbit—and also the deer—the middle finger.

Caption: is that even a question?????

* * *

Once everyone has finished eating, the house turns into a free-for-all as bags are packed and counters scoured and leftover booze collected. With everyone lending a hand, the house goes from messy club to pristine rental in an hour.

“Everything claimed?” asks Allura, whisking around the upper floor.

“Whose chapeau?” Acxa calls out as she waves a toque in the air.

Rax comes running up the stairs, drying his hands on his pants. “Mine!”

Most everyone else stand outside, bundled loosely in preparation for biting winds that have momentarily subsided. There’s snow to brush off cars, engines to warm up, and bodies to mill about the exhaust saying their farewells. Lance stands with Plaxum as the last of their clan exit the house with nearly forgotten toothbrushes and snacks.

“God,” Plaxum says as Allura double checks the lock, “I forget how much I miss you guys until we have to leave each other.”

Lance spreads his arms wide and she steps into his embrace. “We’ll just have to find another excuse to get together again,” he says around a faceful of her hair.

“No—no excuses,” she retorts, digging her chin into his collarbone. “We hang out whenever the hell we want to, with no more reason than because we have the time.”

“Deal.” With one last squeeze, Lance lets Plaxum go. She slides her hat over the abundance of her hair and shoots Lance a sly smile.

“Next time,” she says with false innocence, “you can tell me all about how you and Keith got together.”

Lance is unable to retort with anything more than a long string of vowels, and by the time consonants make an appearance, Plaxum’s already gone to latch herself onto Shay’s arm. It’d be so nice to have the same confidence in his love life that Plax seems to have in his. Of course, that doesn’t stop half-formed skits from stamping themselves all over his imagination. In these versions, Lance is much suaver and Keith a lot less likely to curl his lip.

Thankfully the daydreams don’t get much traction; he still has to say his goodbyes to Acxa and Co., witness Lotor making up with Ezor by handshake (even though Ezor’s arms twitch for a hug and Lotor almost reflexively responds the same), followed by Zethrid clapping them both on the back with zeal. Shay and Rax are next, both giving their regards for Lance to pass along to Hunk as the final vestiges of their twin affections.

Eventually it comes down to Lance, Allura, Shiro, and the Holts, watching the line of cars pull out under the frosted trees.

“I guess I’m not going to see you two for awhile,” Allura says as the last taillight vanishes behind a snowbank.

“Probably not,” agrees Lance, crossing his arms. He watches Matt slamdunk a fistful of snow down Shiro’s collar and the quest for vengeance that ensues, all while Pidge captures it on her phone. “Do you  _ really _ have to go so far?”

“Far is where the jobs are,” says Allura. “I’ll start planning the Canada day party early. Make sure you have time off.”

“Wherever I may be at the time,” drawls Lance, but he grins. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Shiro and Matt’s tussle has escalated to involve Pidge and the tackling of each other into snowbanks. Lance itches to join in, but he catches sight of Allura’s gaze following them with a small smile.

“Is Matt driving you guys to the airport?” asks Lance, feeling as though he’s secretly dipping a toe in lakewater to test the temperature.

Curiously, Allura becomes unnaturally casual, as if she too doesn’t know how cold the metaphorical water is. “Oh, no, we’re driving out West with him. He’s going to fly back to Halifax.”

“Damn,” says Lance, curious but trying not to be nosey about it. “Extra muscle for moving in?”

“Don’t joke, you know he’ll just be acting the supervisor.”

Lance snorts a laugh. “I wanted to give him  _ some _ sort of credit.”

“As if he needs it.”

“So cold, princess.”

“And Matt is the burning to Shiro’s lukewarm,” says Allura with a smile. “You’re going to Ottawa, though? To see Keith?”

“And Hunk,” adds Lance, feeling for a moment the swell of anticipation to get on the road. “Then he and Pidge are gonna drive back to Hali, and I’m just gonna roll home and contemplate my life choices.”

“I heard from Pidge you’ll only be staying one night,” says Allura while Matt and Pidge ally to bury Shiro. “That’s a lot of driving for one night.”

Lance shrugs. “So it better be a good one.”

“Just remember to stay hydrated.”

“Yes, mother.”

Allura snorts. “I know at least Hunk will be sure everyone stays fed. Do I ever miss that boy.”

“Same.” Lance shifts from foot to foot, feeling the cold seep away what little warmth his toes had been hanging onto. “Who said it was okay for everyone to move out of the province again?”

“Maybe you’ll be next,” says Allura, scoffing when Lance shoots her a dubious look. “What? For years Pidge said she was going to move to Toronto—”

“Claim a fancy place in Forest Hill,” interjects Lance with a nod.

“—and yet she’s out on the coast. Breathing sea air. Getting her poutine nabbed by gulls.”

“A day’s drive away from her favourite people,” Lance adds. “Turns out adulthood is driving a batshit amount just to see your friend for a day or two.”

Allura laughs. “And  _ you _ said you were going to build a treehouse in your parents’ backyard and live there forever.”

“Getting pretty close too.”

“Shiro wanted to stay in Mississauga until we got settled, Matt was going to take a job in Niagara, Lotor was going to buy his parents’ house, Acxa was going to go to Trent, Zethrid to McMaster, Narti to Queen’s—”

Lance interrupts her with a sigh. “And the point is?”

“Adulthood is grabbing opportunities where you can get them,” says Allura with a wry smile, “and ending up places you’d never expected, or wanted, just to feel like you’re on the right track.”

“So, adulthood is travelling. A batshit amount.”

“Okay, fine. Basically.”

He knows that Allura is trying to make him feel better—about the separation, the distance, different time zones, missed birthdays, and long lists of things they’ll promise to do together next time they’re in town. She isn’t even gone yet and Lance already misses her.

He tells her so, and Allura grabs him for a tight hug. “Not forever,” she says against his scarf.

“Not forever,” Lance agrees, and hugs her back.

“They’re getting sentimental!” cries Pidge.

“Stop them before they start weeping!” crows Matt.

And suddenly there’s a whole lot more bodies and snow involved.

By the time they  _ actually _ finish their goodbyes, Lance is very much on the verge of tearing up (he can feel it in his throat) and Pidge is dancing from foot to numb foot. Lance keeps waving until Allura, Shiro and Matt are driving away, and then it’s just he and Pidge packing themselves into Lance’s Toyota.

For three seconds, Lance thinks about how quiet it suddenly is, and then Pidge is jamming the aux cord into her phone and blasting the loneliness away.

* * *

Considering the fact the car has snow tires on, its traction sucks. Lance wrestles with the wheel until snow-packed side roads turn into cleared main ones. The highway is blissfully empty too, allowing Lance to relax and flick on cruise control. They’re well on their way when Pidge sets her phone down on her knee.

“You know my brother is ace too.”

It takes Lance a moment to realize Pidge is talking to him. He blinks at her, but her gaze is set on the road.

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah. Aromantic.”

Lance faces forward again. Did he know that? It isn’t really a surprise, but it’s the kind of thing that while he didn’t see it coming, he didn’t have any preconceived notions about it either.

“But, what about, uh…?” Lance twists his mouth as the memory comes back to him. “Isn’t it...I don’t know...a bit odd for him to be, y’know, sharing a bed with a married couple?” At least that’s what he assumed they were doing at the time, bolstered by Allura’s reaction to his probing.

“I thought so,” agrees Pidge. “He doesn’t even like sharing beds.”

“Runs in the family, huh?”

“Yeah. But I think Shiro was the closest thing he ever got to—you know. A partner, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Lance recalls a thumb rubbing comforting circles.

“He loves Shiro,” Pidge continues, “and he was ready to be second best, but I thought that maybe…”

The warmth in Allura’s eyes when she looks at Matt, taking him by the hands and spinning him into a dance, Shiro looking on with laughter in his song.

“The dynamic’s changed,” says Lance, thinking about how two shared a ring but it seemed like maybe the three could share their lives.

“Yeah.”

There’s an odd feeling in Lance’s chest, like he’s cozy but envious at the same time—happy for Matt, for the three of them being so tight knit and trusting, but wishing from the bottom of his heart that he could have something like that too. The thought is soon followed by guilt—doesn’t he have a great group of friends?

It’s just as good, but not the same.

Lance gazes out the window at the swiftly passing trees, deep green branches a stark contrast to their burden of snow. A gust of wind sends a billowing cloud of white over the highway. Weak sunlight flickers through the shifting layers of snow before the car breaks free on a straight, as empty ahead as it is behind.

They’ve passed the sign for Huntsville when Lance realizes what Shay meant back at the brewery.

_ He looks at you like they look at each other _ .

His heart kicks. It’s not like Lance hasn’t thought about, well,  _ that _ in excruciating detail before, yet it continues to plague him. What, exactly, are the chances that Keith is even interested in a romantic relationship? And is Lance willing to broach the subject? The  _ look _ could be strictly platonic adoration. It probably is. He wonders if that’s what Keith thinks Lance feels, or if the reality is as obvious to him as it is to everyone else.

The thought of being found out nauseates him.

* * *

They stop for gas and relatively healthy snacks when Pidge claims a curdling tum. Lance takes the wheel again as they turn onto the increasingly winding road into Algonquin, the provincial park. It’s a long road, but it provides a number of brilliant views as it takes them around the edge of a dozen lakes, frozen over and pure white. For a short while, the only buildings they see are nearly hidden gatehouses and a small arts museum. The rest are signs for hiking trails and campgrounds barricaded by meter-high snow banks.

Several hours outside Ottawa is a sign for Eganville that Lance thinks he might remember from Pidge’s Snaps. He rolls through a drive-thru for another iced coffee and an iced capp for Pidge. The sign for a small LCBO in the middle of the town reminds Lance that his beers aren’t fit for drinking.

“Booze run?” asks Lance as he pulls into the parking lot.

“Oh shit, yeah,” says Pidge, scrambling for her wallet and trying to fit her iced capp into the cup holder packed with old receipts.

Bordered on either side by unnecessarily boosted pickups, the two squeeze out of the car and walk into the LCBO. It’s small, barely bigger than the cottage, dominated by stacks of two-fours in the middle of the floor. Lance skirts around the boxes to grab six Molson Canadians—though it’s a scant step above pisswater in his opinion—while Pidge collects the driest ciders she can get her hands on.

“You’re a ways from home,” comments the cashier when she accepts Lance’s driver’s license.

“Lots of friends to visit,” says Lance with a grin, as if he considers four hours a long way anymore. “I wish they wouldn’t move all over the place. And this one—” He jerks his thumb at Pidge behind him in line, “—came in from the coast.”

After carefully dropping a number of tallboys and a mickey of vodka on the counter, Pidge thumbs out her ID. “Only after suffering eighteen-odd years of Oshawa first.”

The cashier laughs. “Don’t care for your hometown, I take it?”

“Things wash up on shore that nobody can identify.” Pidge shudders; Lance nearly does too, though thankfully his exposure to such occurrences has been isolated to blurry images.

“I’ll pretend I know what that means,” says the cashier with a sympathetic smile.

After thanking her, Pidge and Lance make their way out of the liquor store, arms laden with paper bags stamped with the grape, barley and hops logo. Lance squeezes his way into the car first, dumping his beer in the back with just enough carelessness that he’ll regret it later. As Pidge struggles to do the same, Lance slides out his phone to see what he’d missed while driving.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

 

» A moose leisurely steps over a snowbank and crosses the road, so close to the unmoving car that Pidge has to lean her phone over the dashboard to capture the scoop of its antlers.

 

» A video of a lake blanketed in snow, the tips of frosted pines whipping past, accompanied by Lance’s distracted singing: “She’s got the best of everything, what could a guy like me  _ ever really offer? _ She’s perfect as she can be—why should I even bother, a-ah~! ‘Cause  _ she’s so hiiiigh—” _

 

» Lance’s face midlaugh.

Caption: tbt when Lance thought this was a song about marijuana.

 

» Pacman uncontrollably guz took a screenshot! «

 

» A picture of Hunk beaming in the chipped wood doorway of Keith’s apartment, scarf and hat coated in fat snowflakes.

Caption: the first arrival

 

**Pacman uncontrollably guz**

roommate just left and gave the ok to use their room

by the way theres a major blizzard so

dont die?

 

» A picture of Hunk still wearing his scarf and cradling Marzipan who, despite her fluff, is dwarfed in his arms.

Caption: shes already cuddling wtf

 

» You took a screenshot! «

* * *

“Pff,” snorts Lance.

“What’s up?”

“Keith’s warning us about a blizzard.  _ Keith _ —the same guy that barbecues in winter wearing fucking Crocs and drives a car with a broken heater.” With a deliberately hearty scoff, Lance pats the dashboard of the car, then himself, then reaches over to do the same Pidge before he’s intercepted by a paper bag of booze. “We’re  _ Canadian _ . Blizzards are in our blood.”

“His definition of blizzard might be different from ours,” says Pidge, twisting to tuck the alcohol behind her seat. “Ours are fluffy. Ottawa’s are probably murderous, like you step outside and the air is liquid nitrogen.”

“Then we just won’t step outside,” says Lance cheerfully and repeats, “We’re  _ Canadian _ . There’s antifreeze in our blood, too.”

“The only antifreeze we’ve got here is vodka, so.”

“Damn, really?”

“This is  _ your _ car, Lance, did you not top up on fluid?”

“Hm.”

Lance still doesn’t think much of it as they drive through the countryside, watching locals on skidoos blast through the snow on either side of the road. At some point the snow starts gusting intermittently. Plumes like ocean swells come rolling over the road, blurring lane boundaries and hiding the shoulder. That much Lance is used to—he doesn’t think twice about it, and neither does Pidge. His tires grip the road and the snow slides off the windshield.

The highway gains another lane on either side, and then another, and another, until eventually there’s eight, split in half by trees and grass that at some point turn into blocky concrete. This is when Lance’s Canadian-born and bred iced coffee-fueled brain registers how he’s automatically slowed down to eighty to fall in line with the tire tracks of the little silver car in front of him, and how he’s flicked on the windshield wipers to bat away the steadily collecting white in his line of sight, and how his grip on the wheel has slid to ten and two.

“Ah,” says Lance into the muffled quiet of the car. Even with the radio on, he feels like there’s a blanket over his ears. “Blizzard.”

Pidge, intent on her phone, looks up and blinks. “Oh. Yep. That sure is.” She leans up to get a look at the road and its nonexistent lanes, invisible under several centimeters of snow. “Damn.”

Lance watches a transport truck with a Quebec plate gingerly change lanes several cars ahead of them. An SUV tries to zip into the gap it leaves behind, carving an S with its tires and spitting up snow when it struggles to grip the untouched fluff between lanes. Lance flexes his fingers against the steering wheel and slows to sixty.

“Do you have anything to say to Keith about this?” asks Pidge casually.

“I will never scoff again about blizzards,” says Lance solemnly, eyes darting to his side mirror at a flash of blue and red. He carefully nudges his car closer to the inside lane as a police car blasts by on the shoulder. “I will never doubt Keith’s concern again—or I will, but I’ll continue to regret it. I apologize for my foolishness—are you recording me?”

“Yes.”

Lance shoots her a quick look; she beams and taps her phone.

“What if I’d said something stupid like—like a dying confession?” protests Lance.

“Then I would’ve saved it and not sent it.”

“But—”

“Or I would’ve sent it and been done with it.”

“I would throttle you,” says Lance, wide-eyed. “Lock you in the corpse of a Target with only cheese curds to eat. I’d bury you in pennies, as an homage to all that is expendable in society. ”

Pidge giggles, an evil sound. For a long minute there’s silence as Lance grits his teeth and focuses on preventing the slide of his tires. They roll past an on-ramp where drivers and passengers alike have been forced out of their vehicles, shovels and scrapers in hand as they try to dig their way out of the growing dunes. Those who chose to risk all-season or bald tires have pulled over.

“Hey Lance?”

Lance leans forward until his chin nearly touches the steering wheel. “Yes Pidge?”

“I really gotta pee.”

* * *

Keith’s neighbourhood is comprised of one-ways snug between brick buildings, fenced in parking lots, and cracking potholes occasionally filled in with what looks like black gum. Lance navigates carefully around the worst of them with his hands just now loosening from their death grip. The snow is still coming down heavily, but the slight breeze has been exaggerated by the wind tunnel created by tall buildings. Drifts of the stuff gather around every corner and waft down the street.

Since their ill-timed pit stop, Pidge hasn’t stopped shivering. “N-next l-l-left.”

She tucks her fingers more firmly in the crook of her drawn knees despite the heat blasting in the car—and uncomfortably cooking Lance’s fingers. Instead of turning the heat down, he endures it. The baking of his extremities provides a kind of distraction, now that they’re off the highway and mere minutes from Keith’s doorstep.

Lance’s gut is churning—in a good kind of way, supposedly, though it could probably count as driving under the influence. A flock of butterflies have taken residence in his stomach, and with every stop sign, they flutter a little more insistently. Lance breathes in, and the butterflies flap. He exhales; they twirl as if his gut is home to summer.

“You gonna hurl?” asks Pidge bluntly.

“No,” says Lance a little breathlessly. “I’m feeling a bit lightheaded though.”

Pidge shifts in her seat to give him a critical look. “Have you  _ always _ been like this, or am I just seeing it now?”

“You definitely weren’t paying any attention to me before,” says Lance with a nervous laugh. “Trust me, though, I was garbage at hiding it.”

With a snort, Pidge faces forward. “Probably my biggest failure is that I didn’t find out sooner.”

“Didn’t Hunk have to  _ tell  _ you?”

“Got him while he was drunk,” confirms Pidge, as if it’s something to be proud of.

Lance has to admit it  _ was _ excellent timing, and Hunk is notorious for sticking his nose into things and letting them slip at inopportune moments (i.e. Friday drunk online team game nights: Team Scotia versus Team Ontario). How else would Lance have found out about Pidge’s closet love of anime if not for Hunk blurting out that her first ever personal email was shizaya97? Perhaps this is karma. Lance teases Pidge for being a weeb; she cradles the authentic half of his love life in her gremlin hands.

At least he can trust her not to willfully sabotage him when he’s doing that just fine himself.

“It’s just after—yeah, this one here.” Pidge points across the four-way stop in front of them. On the right is a school with fenced basketball courts, while the left is a series of deep-set and narrow brick apartment complexes. Lance recognizes Keith’s shitty silver Pontiac that he keeps insisting he’s going to trade in for a motorcycle. It’s parked in the alley in front of a series of trash bins, blocked in by a yellow VW beetle.

“Is that Hunk’s car?” Lance whispers as he squeezes into the space directly beside the snow-laden bug.

“Yep. Freshly bought—second-hand, anyway.”

“What the shit? It’s adorable.”

“God, I know, it’s sickening,” says Pidge brightly. “Say cheese!”

Lance smiles reflexively as he turns, to which Pidge clicks her tongue. While she hunches over her phone to send off the picture, Lance cranks the parking brake up and reaches behind him for their paper bags of liquid fun. The cans within clank together as Lance hefts it up. He freezes with a hand on his seatbelt.

The front door to the building is open, allowing cool fluorescent light to spill out from the foyer. Silhouetted against the light is undeniably Keith, a backwards baseball cap pinning his hair away from his face, his shoulders hunched against the brush of cold as the door opens wider.

Then he reaches out with an arm and beckons at them impatiently. His grin is wide, however, and Lance’s chest squeezes.

“My god,” deadpans Lance. “This asshole has a flow.”

“And you love it,” Pidge says just as monotonously.

“Shit, I do.”

The cold air that finds every sliver of bare skin does little to cool the burning in Lance’s face, but at least it’ll give him an excuse for the splotchy flush it’s taking on. Pidge grabs her overnight and LCBO bags and shoves right past Keith into the warmth of the building. Lance follows a split second slower, a dozen different scenarios for the next ten seconds playing out in his head, pros and cons of each, a loop of possibilities, endless.

They all fizzle out the moment he’s close enough to see the way Keith’s grin quirks higher on one side, the half moons of his amused gaze, the fur clinging to his shirt. Lance forgets his nerves and the snow. With a worrying series of clunks, he drops his bags and wraps Keith up in a hug.

“Oh shi—your beer!” Keith protests, but he’s laughing, just as well trained to receive hugs as Pidge. “Let me close the door—you’re  _ freezing  _ me _ — _ ”

Lance doesn’t let go, but waddles Keith backwards into the foyer. He smells faintly of soap and the comforting must of clean fur. Lance holds him tighter, his nose tickled by the untamed ends of Keith’s hair. “Why do you have a hockey flow? What is this? Are you one of them now?”

“Wh—no—why would— _ it’s not a flow!” _

“You sure?” Lance steps back, feeling Keith’s hands trailing from his shoulder blades. “Your hair is long. You’re wearing a Senators cap. Backwards.”

Groaning, Keith reaches up to yank it off. “For convenience, not fashion. Jackass,” adds Keith as he jams the hat onto Lance’s head and tugs the brim down over his eyes.

With an indignant squawk, Lance tips it back to see Keith already bending down to grab his neglected bags. They tussle briefly, turning something as simple as shutting the door and carrying bags into a competition.

On the second floor, Lance can hear Hunk’s voice as he excitedly greets Pidge, and his heart soars. He ditches Keith with the LCBO bag and springs up the creaky steps. One of the apartment doors is open, wafting warm air out into the chilly stairwell. Hunk stands inside, yelping as Pidge plants cold hands on his thick arm, unaware of Lance barrelling towards him until the last moment.

“Hunk!” cries Lance, hanging off his friend like a necklace.

“L-Lance!” chokes Hunk, coughing out a laugh as he swings Lance into the warmth of Keith’s apartment. “I missed you buddy!”

“I missed you  _ more!” _

“I missed you  _ most!” _

“Look, buddy, I’m gonna have to stop us there because you know I missed Lorazepam the mostest.”

“Her name is still Marzipan, believe it or not,” says Keith as he edges around them to put down Lance’s beer. “Lorazepam’s never going to happen.”

Lance juts his chin out as he releases Hunk. “You’ve got to slip up eventually, Keith.”

Scoffing, Keith leads them into a living room with an abundance of potted and hanging plants. Pidge is on her knees, a meter away from the rabbit. She turns around at the sound of creaking floorboards with an expression of tortured longing. Marzipan wiggles her nose and remains seated on the doggie bed.

Keith raises his eyebrows. “You know you could just...pick her up right?”

“Like this,” says Lance as he steps forward to scoop up the rabbit. Comfortable as she is with being handled, Marzipan wriggles to snuggle further into the crook of Lance’s arm. His chest squeezes; the feeling is unnervingly similar to the one when Lance catches a glimpse of Keith with mussed hair and a sleepy grin. “I think my heart just broke and repaired itself.”

“That can’t be healthy,” Pidge says even as she tentatively stretches her hands out for the rabbit.

“What’re you so nervous for?”

“I don’t want to hurt her!”

“She’s not made of  _ glass _ ,” says Lance with a snort, pointedly nuzzling his nose against one of Marzipan’s paws. Even more pointedly, she pushes his nose as if holding him at bay. “My heart.”

Pidge frowns. “Glass is more solid. She’s all...goo.”

“Don’t describe my rabbit as gooey,” says Keith, grimacing from where he’s sitting on the couch arm.

Despite her obvious hesitation, and spurred by the inane human desire to cuddle all things with wiggly noses, Pidge ends up with a bundled rabbit in her arms. It takes her less than a minute to visibly melt. In that time Hunk already has a pan of crispy spring rolls sitting pretty on the stovetop, and everyone sans the rabbit has an open can of their choice.

“To friendship!” Hunk declares, urging them to clink their cans together.

The moment their cans meet, Lance looks around his circle of friends and feels a tidy and content warmth spread from his chest to his fingertips.

“To friendship,” he echoes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it snowed 15cm a few days ago and i was that idiot who hadn't switched to snow tires yet. whoopsies.
> 
> [me tumbumbumblr](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)


	4. the squad and two extra wheels sit in a circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for recreational use of M!!!! not from lance's pov

By the time the spring rolls are gone, Marzipan is devouring a pile of greens in Pidge’s lap, and their game of Crazy Eight Countdown has devolved into a round of Who Can Throw Playing Cards With More Accuracy.

“Cheat!” cries Lance in outrage.

“Your loss,” Keith says smugly, arms crossed, as Lance scowls at the queen of hearts sticking out from its place lodged between the dangling leaves of a spider plant. “I told you I could do it. So what are you gonna give me?”

“My resentment.”

“I’ve already got an abundance of that.”

Hunk returns from the kitchen with a tray of cheesy potato skins. “So, turns out Nyma and Rolo are in the area waiting for their flight to Australia.”

“Their flight to _where_ , sorry?”

“Australia.”

“Why _Austr—_ “

“Point is! I invited them over to wait.” Hunk beams.

Lance stares. “I thought you hated Rolo.”

“When did I ever?”

“Uh, your very first meeting? You thought he was a scammer.”

“Water under the bridge,” says Hunk with a wave of his hand. “I hope you don’t mind that I did, Keith.”

“Not at all. As long as they bring gifts.”

Gifts, according to Nyma and Rolo, means molly. They arrive half an hour later, and after a round of greetings and small talk, Rolo plops down a plastic pencil case covered in glittery kitten stickers. He opens the box towards them.

“You down?” asks Rolo, one thin eyebrow arched high in question.

Hunk leans over curiously as Pidge wrinkles her nose and Keith says, “I’ll half a drop if anyone wants to pick up the slack.”

“Nah, thanks,” says Lance, trying to balance his half full beer can on his belly. “Hunk looks intrigued, though.”

Caught in the act of staring, Hunk flushes and shoots upright. “I’ve just never done it before. What’s it like?”

“Good,” says Rolo with a shrug.

Nyma rolls her eyes and elaborates, “If you’re in a good mood, it’ll get better. Things move funny. Last I took some, I thought the curtains were underwater. Your senses kind of intensify, I guess. You feel _a lot_.”

Lance eyes the powder that Rolo is helping Keith split. The rest is already wrapped up in a number of little tissue packages. The idea of swallowing toilet paper makes Lance snort, but he’s aware more than half the room remembers he used to eat paper muffin cups as a child, so he doesn’t point it out.

“Okay.” It seems as though Hunk has come to a decision. “Okay,” he repeats with a set brow, “but you have to promise me you’ll lock me up if I start acting weird.”

“Weird how?” drawls Rolo.

“Not like me!”

Keith pinches his little package and holds it out to Hunk. “I hate to break it to you, but you’re going on a trip. Besides, the only room with a lock is the bathroom, and we’re gonna need it.”

“Also, we’d have to be the ones in the bathroom,” adds Pidge as Hunk hesitantly accepts the gift.

Keith blinks. “What?”

“It locks from the inside, right?”

“Oh, right. Ha.”

Lance quirks an eyebrow at Keith, mouth twitching into a teasing smile. “You’re already fucked.”

“Not yet I’m not,” says Keith before tossing the tissue-wrapped drug into his mouth.

“God,” Lance hears Nyma say softly to Rolo. “They’re so cute. It’s like I’m back in high school.”

It takes a little longer for Hunk to finally take the plunge, after many assurances of personal safety and more than one person telling him not to take it if he’s going to get anxious about it.

“I’m _brave_ ,” Hunk whispers before tossing it into his gob.

“Oh god,” says Pidge, and she and Lance drain their beers.

* * *

**LuLu the Lioness**

» A video of their car passing the sign welcoming them to Sault St. Marie, then panning over to show the front seats occupied by Shiro and Matt, bopping to Kelly Clarkson.

 

» A trio of steaming fries covered in cheese and gravy, in the familiar checkerboard boats of Smoke’s Poutinerie.

 

» Shiro pushing Matt on a toboggan. With one last push, Matt vanishes over the crest of the hill. The only sound is Shiro heaving, Allura giggling, and then faintly a moment later, Matt yelping.

 

**EZOR!**

» Platinum hair braided into a neat fishtail, in a shimmering filter.

Caption: exoneration braid

 

**Milk.**

» Pink hair in a tight dutch braid.

Caption: Amnesty braid.

 **fav** **fish girl**

» “Is this karma for saying I would punch a dog?” and a panover to look at a flat tire caked with muddy snow.

 

» A picture of a tow truck covered by a filter of falling flowers.

Caption: my knight in shining armor

 

» Plaxum sitting in the front seat of the tow truck, deadpan peace sign that matches that of the grey-haired driver beside her.

Caption: new best friend

* * *

Half an hour later, Hunk says, “I want to bake” while watching Lance sweep his fingertip through the crumbs of their appetizers.

“Probably not a great idea, bud,” says Keith the same time Nyma gasps, “Cookies _, please._ ”

“Milk and cookies it is,” says Hunk, rising to his feet and nearly pitching onto the coffee table if not for Keith and Lance diving forward to brace him.

Keith gives him a pat on the shoulder. “I’ve got both already, _please_ sit down.”

Hunk does so with a warbled sort of sigh. Pidge takes it upon herself to entertain him with filters on Snapchat, and Lance expects there will be quite a few interesting pictures to look at later. He and Keith end up in the kitchen hunting for cookies to pile on a plate. Lance opens the fridge and reaches for the milk. He’s poured a glass and reaching for a new bag but pauses with his fingertips pinching the plastic corner.

“Keith. Buddy.”

“Yeah?” Keith doesn’t stop shaking out off-brand Oreos over a bunch of digestives.

“Your, uh, milk. It appears to be frozen.”

Keith stops then, looking caught. “Um.”

“Keith.”

“Well.”

“Why is your milk frozen?”

He grimaces as he looks over at Lance, who shakes the bag of milk in his direction. Smooth chunks of ice float around inside.

“I don’t go through it that fast,” says Keith defensively. “It tastes just fine after it thaws!”

“This is so weird,” says Lance. “You’re so weird. I’m telling everyone.”

Keith groans, following Lance back out where the others are far too absorbed with cookies and freshly thawed milk to care that the milk was frozen in the first place. Lance watches Hunk drop an Oreo into his milk, try to fish it out with another, and manage to lose that one too. Pidge has her phone out and recording, cheeks puffed in amusement.

“This isn’t enough,” sighs Nyma.

“Hunk. Hey. Hey.” Lance leans over the armrest imploringly as Hunk watches his cookies dissolve. “Did you bring anymore food?”

It takes another moment until Lance can get his attention, but eventually Hunk’s eyes focus (kind of) on him and he processes the question. “Oh.” His eyes widen. “ _Oh_. Oh no.”

There’s a beat of silence, interrupted by someone’s stomach ripping like a jet engine.

“I’m craving a beavertail,” Pidge suddenly says above the growling. “Nutella and banana. Icing sugar. A scoop of ice cream.”

“That’s starting to sound like a funnel cake.”

“Or a Mcflurry, I don’t care.”

“ _I’m_ craving roti.”

“Pulled pork poutine,” Keith says wistfully. “Crispy fries, thick gravy, cheese curds that melt under the meat…”

“Ooh, talk dirty to me.”

Nyma tosses her phone onto the table. “I just ordered a pizza.”

“ _Filthy._ ”

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

» Hunk and his cookies. The camera shakes with Pidge’s giggles.

 

» Hunk draining his glass of cookie milk, a loud guffaw followed by a blur that ends with a shot of the ceiling. Pidge leans into view, “Look what you made me do!”

 

» A selfie of Pidge in the bathroom mirror with the deer filter.

 

» Another selfie, with the dog filter.

 

» Sparkly kitty.

 

» Bug eyes.

 

» Nerd.

 

**Bees?**

Are you done!!!

 

» Panda.

 

» Fingers wiggling under the bathroom door and Hunk’s indignant voice, “I need to pee, Pidge! Please!”

 

» A slow zoom in on Nyma, who’s petting Rolo’s sleeve and saying, “What d’you mean you don’t have heating in your car?”

 

» Another slow zoom in on Lance’s face, glazed over with bliss, while Keith sits there petting his hair in the midst of saying, “—what I said. My car is an icebox.” “Then how do you drive?” “With a blanket, sometimes.”

* * *

Lance doesn’t have much choice in the matter when Nyma drags him from the couch (and Keith’s ministrations) to join her in fetching their pizza. The stairwell is freezing compared to the apartment, even with all the alcohol in Lance’s system. He rubs fiercely at his upper arms.

“Sooo. Australia, huh?” he says halfway down the stairs.

“Yep.”

“ _Why?”_

Nyma laughs. “Why not? It’s not like I’m doing anything here.”

“Yeah, but. _Australia_.” Lance jumps the last three steps, feeling the jolt of the landing through the bottom of his feet. “What made you think to go to the land of giant deadly beasties?”

“Rolo,” she says simply, grinning when Lance shoots her a wide-eyed look. “You think it’s weird that I’m following my boyfriend to the other side of the world.”

“Um, a little?” admits Lance.

“You’re not the only one. But who cares? I get to see a whole new country. I can get whatever job there. Experience something _new_.” She pauses at the front door, one hand on the handle and looking wistfully at nothing. “It’s gonna be an adventure.”

“Terrifying seems a better word for it.”

She grins at him. “Yeah, but it’s okay, because we won’t be alone.”

With a twist and a pull, Nyma opens the door to a wall of blistering cold. She immediately closes it.

“I was going to wait for the delivery guy outside,” she says, “but I’ve changed my mind.”

Lance shivers viciously, rubbing his arms with fervor. He and Nyma dance in place, the latter with her phone out tracking the pizza delivery’s progress.

“So you dating anyone?”

The question comes from so far out of left field that Lance forgets to shiver. Nyma just grins at him and waits.

“Why is everyone so curious?” he grumbles instead.

“We’re invested,” she says. “Don’t you have a thing for Keith?”

Lance crosses his arms so tight it’s a wonder they don’t snap in the chill. “So?”

“You haven’t asked him out?”

“Nope.”

“Why? Sometimes the two of you already act it, what’s the difference in making it official?”

Lance levels her with a flat stare. “ _I_ might be down, but I don’t know about him and I’m—”

“Not gonna ask?” Nyma tuts at his wrinkled nose.

“What if it gets weird?

“Do you want to kiss him?”

“Nyma!” cries Lance in exasperation. “I’m not—”

“I know. Do you?”

Lance scowls at her then looks away. It would be easier if saying “I’m ace” could cut it with Nyma. He’s unsure whether she knows of the kisses he shared with Plaxum, but it doesn’t matter because the question stands: does he want to kiss _Keith_?

Instead of directly answering, he says, “I can’t afford to lose his trust. He’ll think I’ve been taking advantage of him or something, with us being ace a— a pretense or whatever.”

“I’m pretty sure he would kiss you right now.”

“Right now he’s drunk and high, Nyma, what the fresh hell.”

“Yeah, but—”

“No!”

She drops it, and there’s only a minute of awkward silence between them before the delivery man comes knocking. They’re trudging up the staircase and nearly at the landing when Nyma sighs.

“I’m sorry, Lance. I didn’t mean to push.”

“S’alright,” he says, but he can’t help but blame her for the onslaught of images in his head.

Back inside, their return heralds quite a bit less enthusiasm than Lance anticipated, which is probably due to the devastated look Pidge is currently wearing. A quick look around shows nothing out of the ordinary—except for Marzipan trying to climb into a planter. Nyma puts the pizza boxes down, an eyebrow arched high, as Lance hesitantly sits down beside Keith on the couch.

“Uh?”

“I was just joking,” says Keith sheepishly.

“About?”

Hunk busies himself by petting Pidge’s unruly hair, an exaggerated frown puckering his brow. “She was telling us how much she appreciated us and Keith said it’s inappropriate to show feelings!”

“I was _kidding!”_

“I’m a mess,” whispers Pidge before dropping her face in her hands.

Lance stares. The venture downstairs has left him feeling a touch more sober than previous, enough that he thinks at least a little bit before leaning into Keith’s space. His friend looks at him at the touch of their shoulders, eyes glazed and struggling to focus with every blink.

“You should probably apologize,” Lance points out.

Keith juts his bottom lip out and Lance feels his breath hitch. Damn Nyma.

“But I wasn’t serious,” mumbles Keith petulantly. It’s adorable. Lance hates it.

“Apologize,” he says sternly.

With a theatrical huff, Keith whips his head around—body wobbling with the motion—to look at Pidge. She’s already staring expectantly at him; Lance is beginning to doubt she was ever really upset.

“I am _sorry_ ,” Keith says clearly.

“About?” prompts Pidge, earning herself a weak scowl.

“About your feelings.”

Lance feels a laugh try to punch its way free from his lungs. “Try again,” he wheezes.

“Ugh. I’m sorry I took your feelings lightly or whatever.”

The smile Pidge gives him is positively beaming in that dreadful way only she has mastered. “Just like you do your own,” she says cheerfully, at complete odds with her apparent act mere seconds ago. “Thanks.”

Lance expects Keith to aim a jab—verbal or physical, it’s a toss up—at the cunning girl, but nothing comes. Curious, Lance leans forward to try and catch a glimpse of Keith’s expression, ultimately failing when Keith hunches his shoulders in and effectively blocks Lance out. Perhaps he’s imagining it, but Lance thinks he might have seen what he can only describe as a panicked flush creeping its way up Keith’s neck.

There’s a choked off sound from Lance’s other side. He turns to see Rolo with his hand clamped over Nyma’s mouth, her eyes glaring at her boyfriend instead of the cheese about to peel free from her pizza.

“I’m lost,” Lance declares.

“Not surprised,” says Pidge. “Now as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted—” She pointedly glowers at Keith, who is staring quite determinedly at the ceiling. “—I want to say that I’m glad y’all are here. As my friends. ‘Cause I mean, I didn’t think I’d get any.”

Hunk is still petting her hair, and while her lips are pursed, Lance thinks it has less to do with his attention and moreso that maybe she wasn’t actually acting earlier.

“Uh, why not?” asks Lance.

Pidge shrugs. “I didn’t have any, and then I did. So.” She smiles, lip trembling slightly. “I’m glad.”

Suddenly Hunk bursts into tears and, with a startled squawk, Pidge is pulled into his embrace. They’re not the only ones—Nyma and Rolo are clutching each other as if they’ve just realized they adore each other. It’s all very touching. Lance wants to grab the other extra wheel in the room, but Keith has other plans. Instead of hugging Lance, Keith slaps his hand down on his knee, palm facing the same ceiling he’s still stubbornly looking at.

For a moment, Lance doesn’t know what to do except stare. Eventually, slowly, he puts his hand down over Keith’s so their palms are flush. In an instant he feels drunk again.

Hunk is still crying and Pidge is on the verge, Nyma and Rolo are confirming their relationship, and then there’s Lance with his hand in Keith’s, and his heart leaping in a way that would put Marzipan to shame.

* * *

It’s some indistinguishable hour in the early morning when Nyma and Rolo leave. There are lazy hugs and lazier well wishes, and it’s a long moment after the door has already closed behind them that Lance remembers they’re hopping on a plane to Australia very shortly. He’s tempted to go running outside after them, even knowing they’re in a cab and well on their way, but what really stops him is the warmth of Keith’s hand.

They’re no longer holding hands—turns out trying to do things like eat and piss and open another can of beer are a little more difficult with someone attached. However, that doesn’t mean Lance hasn’t found his free hand stuck to Keith in some way. He thinks that maybe he shouldn’t allow the alcohol to decide whether or not he needs his palm glued to Keith’s side, his fingers through his hair, or his cheek against his shoulder, but logic washes away in the wake of Keith’s equally touch starved behaviour.

And touch starved is the only pairing of words remotely suitable. If Lance is clingy, that’s nothing compared to Keith. He finds his friend’s fingers hooking in his pockets, petting his hair, touching his chin, jaw, neck—

Even in his inebriated state, Lance knows that might just be the combination of drugs and alcohol. For now, however, he chooses to believe it’s because Keith is feeling the same unavoidable gravitational pull that Lance is. Nobody else is in the right state of mind to comment on it; Pidge is on the floor trying to speak Marzipan’s language and Hunk is attempting to bake using an oven that Lance removed the fuse for an hour earlier.

For now, Lance allows himself to enjoy it.

When Hunk sprawls out on the floor and starts snoring, Lance takes it as their cue to head to bed. Somehow they all manage to brush their teeth and chug a bottle of water each. Through the power of competition, Lance and Keith down a second. Soon after, Hunk and Pidge have tucked themselves in the empty room of Keith’s absent roommate, Pidge apparently too drunk to mind sharing a bed, and Lance finds himself pressing cold toes to Keith’s ankles.

Keith yelps and kicks him. “Get your icicles away from me,” he hisses, flailing his legs until there’s several folded layers of blanket between their feet.

“But they’re _cold_ and you’re _warm_ ,” Lance whines as he worms his toes under the shield.

“Don’t you dare— _ack!_ ”

Lance receives a knee to the shin for his trouble, and in retaliation he presses his equally chilly fingers against Keith’s neck. The blanket nearly goes flying in the ensuing scuffle; Lance laughs himself breathless, allowing Keith to grab his fingers and keep them from his bare skin.

“You’re the worst,” says Keith, exhausted.

“You make it too easy.”

“Everyone _else_ has a healthy fear of me.”

“Aw, they just don’t know how fluffy you are.” Lance grins and wiggles his fingertips, barely poking out over Keith’s grip.

“Go to sleep, insect.”

“Rude!”

Keith closes his eyes resolutely, nose wrinkled in determination. Lance does the same, but finds his head spinning too much to be comfortable and blinks his eyes open again. With the quiet descending upon them, so too does a weight that’s more than just the blankets keeping them warm. The room is illuminated by dim streetlights and the pale winter sky. Across the ceiling are a number of multicoloured fairy lights, zigzagging around the hanging plants Keith’s roommate convinced him to keep. Lance recognizes the grid of Halo posters beside the desk as cut outs from an old calendar; he feels too tired to grin, but emotion tugs at his lips. He turns his head to see his fingers still trapped, and beyond them Keith’s eyes, open and heavy-lidded.

“Spins?” mumbles Keith.

“Mm.”

With obvious effort, Keith pushes his face to the edge of his pillow, now close enough that Lance can smell the spearmint of his toothpaste. There’s a creak from beyond the bedroom door, then a thunk and a series of clicks as the radiator starts up. Another creak.

“Keith.”

“Yeah?”

“Is your house haunted?”

Even with his expression already slack from fatigue, Keith still manages to give him a deadpan stare. “No, I’m pretty sure those are the house hippos.”

“Hey, that was one time okay—”

“One time being your entire childhood?”

“So I was a little naïve.”

Keith’s nose flares with the beginning of a laugh. “Lance, it was a commercial about not believing everything you see on TV.”

“It was _very_ convincing, okay?” huffs Lance. “I don’t want to hear that from the guy who thought blending Kraft Dinner and drinking it through a straw was _clever_.”

“It was a valid idea,” says Keith nonchalantly. “Terrible in practice, I’ll admit.”

“Gross.”

“House hippos.”

“Quiet, you.”

Keith smothers his laugh against the pillow, Lance helplessly smiling at him despite the teasing—or maybe because of it. He knows he’s a weak man.

Sleep is coming in fast with every word and chuckle between them. Every time Keith blinks, Lance is sure he’ll fall asleep, but with a struggle he opens them back up. He’s obviously staying awake for Lance’s benefit, though the spins have calmed.

“Just sleep,” Lance murmurs when Keith actually passes out for all of ten seconds before twitching awake again.

“No,” says Keith petulantly.

“Why not?”

“Because.” Keith’s eyes are so glazed that Lance doubts he can actually see him. “More time.”

“What’s that?”

The fingers around Lance’s tighten, just slightly, enough that it draws Lance’s gaze to them. He’s nearly overcome with the urge to press his face against those hands.

“I want more time with you,” mumbles Keith.

Lance’s exhale is undoubtedly shaky. He was fine earlier—he was _fine_ lying next to him, holding hands, breathing the same air and sharing the same blankets. It’s not until that moment that Lance wants to reach out and pull Keith to him, encircle him safe and warm in his arms, feel the heat of his body right there with him. More than that is the desire to press his lips to Keith’s unruly hair, his temple, his cheek, and the teasing curve of his mouth, as if holding him is just not close enough. Lance feels it like a physical ache in his chest.

When Lance first realized he liked Keith, he let himself enjoy the giddy addition to the multitude of positive feelings he’d already paired with his friendship. It was _fun_ , being that excited. He knew even then it wouldn’t lead to anything. The problem became the unchecked growth of his feelings.

For people like them, it isn’t so easy as confessing—for Keith, who lost friends when it became clear he wouldn’t reciprocate, and for Lance, who promised he wouldn’t become another person to ask him for more than he could give.

Yet here they are, hands tangled together, knees touching, eyelids slowly bobbing. Lance adores everything about Keith, from his quick temper playing games, the way he giggles, his poorly timed teasing, the kindness he hides under exasperation. He loves his ashy knuckles and short eyelashes and the way he wrinkles his nose.

There’s a pain in the back of Lance’s throat that won’t go away. He needs a drink of water; he needs a lot of things, but his mouth is fixed on his wants and before he can scramble for his filter—

“I like you.”

His voice comes out as a rasp, barely intelligible even to his own ears. By now his heart has caught up with his words and it’s the rapid bassline to a song he doesn’t know the lyrics to. Across their clasped hands, Keith looks at Lance in tired confusion. He didn’t hear.

Lance should feel relieved, but he doesn’t. He’s come this far through arguable courage.

“I like you,” he repeats in barely a whisper. “I like you.” His breath shudders in his chest, and he says even quieter, “I’m sorry, I want to kiss you.”

He knows as soon as he says it that he should not have. The grip on his fingers slackens, and through the drowsy lack of expression on Keith’s face, Lance sees it: sadness.

The heaviness of sleep pushes down on Lance even before he can really feel the weight of his mistake, but it’s impossible to miss Keith’s eyes closing and the dip of the bed as he turns to his other side. The last thing Lance sees before going under is the back of Keith’s head.

And the last thing he feels is the emptiness of his hand and regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tum](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)   
>  [twit](http://twitter.com/bitterbeetle)


	5. what's worse than a hangover? driving with one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna dedicate this to that one anon earlier today who was like "u gonna finish??" and i was like I Could Right Now Actually so i did!!
> 
> anyway warning for non-graphic hurling

The apartment is freezing when Lance wakes up, but there’s no way he can remain in bed when he’s already overstayed his welcome. Bracing himself, Lance slips out from under the blankets and flattens his bare feet to the cold floor. He barely manages to bite back a yelp. Behind him, Keith shifts in his sleep, and something a lot like panic sends Lance lunging for his discarded socks and tiptoeing out of the room.

With a throbbing head, dry throat and pasty mouth, Lance dons his socks and creeps down the hall towards the kitchen. He hears Hunk puttering about before he sees him. Hopefully he’ll take the unenthused good morning Lance gives him as a byproduct of his obvious hangover.

They bring the leftover pizza into the living room to eat, Lance with his feet tucked firmly beneath him. After chugging a glass of water, he feels a whole lot better, but the pizza that follows sets his belly on edge. Massaging it with a cool hand seems to do him some good, even if Hunk asks if he’s expecting.

“When are you planning on heading out?” Hunk asks as he reaches for the crust Lance didn’t finish.

“Same as you guys.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I wanna get home before dark,” Lance fibs easily.

Hunk looks curious still. “Why not stay another day? I’m sure Keith wouldn’t mind you hanging out here till he gets back from work.”

Lance stretches his arms over his head, regretting it as soon as the entirety of his brain gives a particularly painful twinge. “Ow. Y’know ya boy needs to make money too.”

“You’re working?”

“Uh huh.” Another lie, but Hunk seems to be on a helpful streak.

“Too bad,” he says, shifting in his seat, preparing for more. Lance knows he’s going to want to bury his head in the sand. As predicted, Hunk says, “I couldn’t help but overhear last night—”

“We were in a completely different room, Hunk,” says Lance flatly, automatically keeping his voice low. “And whispering.”

“—and it sounded pretty intimate.”

“Just going to ignore that, huh.”

Hunk’s gaze is piercing. “Did you confess?”

Lance kind of wants to die. “No, Hunk, I didn’t.” Perhaps he’ll be smote on the spot for lying so much.

“Oh.” Hunk has the gall to look disappointed. “Damn. Why not?”

Lance knows his hangover must be worse than previously thought when he’s overcome with the desire to throttle Hunk. Unclenching his teeth, Lance says, “Can we all just let it slide? I’d far rather keep him as a friend. Besides, eventually my feelings will go away.”

He can’t pine forever—he’s an _adult_ , damn it. Yet Lance knows there’s no guarantee healing from this heartbreak. By the look on Hunk’s face, his thoughts are dangerously close to the same pitying thing.

The rest of the pizza is finished by a freshly awake Pidge, who thankfully doesn’t ask any questions when Lance notifies her of their matching departure times. Keith is still sleeping as the trio prepare to leave. Their puttering about the small apartment for mysteriously displaced items isn’t a quiet one—Hunk ends up having to move the fridge to find his hat, Marzipan is nestled atop one of Pidge’s socks, and Lance finds his toothbrush exactly where he’d meant to put it on the bathroom sink, though collecting the mass of beer cans scattered about like Easter eggs proves time consuming.

Dumping a third armful of empties back into their case, Lance hears Hunk and Pidge welcoming Keith to the land of the living. Anxious prickles wash up Lance’s spine to settle coolly against his neck. Inhale, exhale, pretend nothing happened.

He steps out into the hallway where their bags have gathered. Even Lance’s have joined the cluster at the door, though he doesn’t know who fetched his when he’d been too afraid to slip back into Keith’s room. The man himself is leaning heavily against the bedroom doorway, Marzipan a fluffy lump in his arms. He’s chuckling with Hunk about something at Pidge’s expense. Lance swallows hard.

The floor creaks under Lance’s feet. At the sound, Keith’s eyes twitch to Lance and then down at his rabbit—there goes any hope of Keith not remembering. Upset and desperate not to show it, Lance flashes his friends a grin.

“Most empties are accounted for,” he declares, “except for one, which may or may not have been thrown outside…”

“I definitely chucked one at Rolo’s head when he went for a smoke,” admits Pidge.

Lance forces a laugh that comes out as bitingly sarcastic. Whatever, he can work with that. “Missing till spring, I’ll bet.”

“Probably.”

Hunk huffs and bends to scoop up his bag. “I hate bailing on you so early, Keith, but…”

“No, it’s fine,” says Keith, tilting his head against the soft tips of Marzipan’s ears. “I’ll try to be the one driving next time.”

“It’s no biggie,” Pidge pipes up. “We’ve both got people to visit along the way, it’s a good excuse.”

The air in the stairwell is even colder than in the apartment. Lance braves it first, clenching his gloved hands against his coat, waiting for Hunk and Pidge to follow his lead. With a group of them, Lance can pretend even for a moment that everything is normal, that nothing changed, that they’re still standing the same distance from each other as usual.

But when the door closes, Lance knows Keith was holding Marzipan as an excuse not to hug any of them goodbye. He gets it, he _does_ , but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Outside, they let the two cars run while Hunk smears sunscreen over his face (“Really, Hunk?” “The sun knows no season, Lance!”) and Pidge and Lance scrape the snow and ice off windows. They depart with rosy cheeks, Rudolph noses, and promises of safe driving and Snapchat updates.

* * *

Lance barely makes it to the first westbound ONroute before everything goes to shit.

He’s been driving for half an hour when the rebellion in his gut makes itself known. The sun reflecting off the snow is blinding, and a headache begins to grow behind his eyes. Fifteen minutes later, he turns off the heat and tries to focus on breathing in cool air. Ahead of him is a black pickup, a staghead decal on the corner of the back window. He stays behind them for another half hour. Between blasting a mishmash of old rock and newer drum and bass, the radio drops cold weather warnings. Lance’s stomach feels like it’s bubbling. Does he need to burp?

_“I_ _'m through with standin' in lines to clubs I'll never get in—”_

“I’m gonna be sick,” says Lance to the empty car, driving the final nail into his coffin.

He cuts across two lanes to reach the off-ramp, blasting too fast and feeling his brakes clunk against the pressure of his foot. The first empty parking spot is half snowbank, but Lance sinks the nose of his car into it anyway, desperately flinging open the door and throwing up into the snow. The winter air is a slap against his exposed skin and scrapes against his already raw throat. Lance gags again.

Whatever strength he had in him to drive an hour and a half is gone in an instant, vanishing under the snow he kicks over his mess. His limbs feel brittle as he drags himself back into his car and shuts the door. The little warmth left has effectively been sucked out, the fresh chill turning his breath to clouds. The only water bottle in the car is half frozen. Lance takes one sip and regrets it the moment the icy liquid touches his teeth. He’s barely fast enough opening the door a second time.

Thankfully, his stomach seems to decide that whatever was bothering it is now buried, but that doesn’t get rid of the taste in his mouth or the weakness in every joint. Lance turns the car off and forces himself to brush his teeth until his mouth feels like a minty tundra.

He’s not sure how long he’s sitting there with watery eyes, a clogged nose and icy mouth before Lance registers a dinging coming from the cupholder. With a sluggish hand, Lance pulls his phone up from its bed.

**LuLu the Lioness**

» Empty prairies.

Caption: I spy with my little eye...

 

» Empty prairies.

Caption: Nothing!

 

» Empty prairies.

Caption: Nothing!

 

» Coasting down a shallow hill, Matt throwing his hands in the air like it’s a roller coaster and punching the roof of the car.

 

» Matt and Shiro head bopping to radio static.

 

» Empty prairies—and a bunch of cows.

Caption: Nothing--oh wait

**Shayle**

» Rax running around in knee-deep snow, chasing a handful of small bundled cousins. A snowball flies out of nowhere to collide with the window in front of Shay’s face, causing her to yelp and then burst into giggles.

 

**nyma numa**

» A shifty video as Rolo gets a pat down by airport security.

Caption: roleplay material for tonight y/y?

 

» Peeking through the plane window at standstill while a machine sprays it with some coloured liquid to de-ice the wings.

 

» The speckled lights of the city below, shrinking rapidly until they’re swallowed by clouds.

Caption: bye forever see you never ottawa

 

**fav fish girl**

» A selfie half occupied by Plaxum’s fluffy hair, and the even fluffier head of hair sported by her grinning friend. Their cheeks are ruddy and pressed together.

Caption: back at it again w/ swirn!!

 

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★**

» Hunk hunched over the steering wheel, doublefisting iced coffees and twin peace signs.

Caption: Lance style roadtrip.

 

» Indistinguishable white farmland whipping past the window, and Pidge’s camera shaking as she turns it on Hunk driving as they sing along, “ _God damn them all!_ I was told we’d cruise the seas for American gold! We’d fire no guns, shed no teeeeaars! But I’m a broken man on a Halifax piiiiiieeeer, the last of Barrett’s privateeeeers.”

 

**The Devil Herself**

Yo Lance

How slow are you driving?

 

**The Devil Herself**

Laaaaaance

 

Lance watches as Keith posts a few question marks, followed close behind by the different ping of a text message. He closes Snapchat to see a series of increasingly worried texts from Pidge (he can tell she’s worried by the terse tone she’s adopted) and another more recent one from Hunk. Apparently they stopped. Guiltily Lance shoots them a quick message back: _sick, chillin at the onroute. gonna wait it out._

He pauses with his thumb hovering over Keith’s contact. Should he tell him, too? Did he care? Would he want to know? If he did, Pidge or Hunk could tell him—

With a grimace, Lance mashes his thumb against the screen. Just because Keith doesn’t feel the same cumbersome spark as Lance doesn’t mean he wouldn’t worry about his radio silence. A painless repetition of what he gave Pidge and Hunk is sent on its way to Keith as well. Lance drops his forehead to the steering wheel.

“Ow,” he hisses through grit teeth.

It’s only then that he realizes how stiff he feels from tensing up and shivering. He’s been sitting in the car for too long already. Groaning, Lance stuffs his keys, phone and wallet into his pockets. His knees feel locked, his toes nonexistent, and he’s pretty sure his nose is running but normal sensation has been replaced by the singular feeling of cold burn.

He doesn’t fully realize just how cold he is until he escapes the whipping wind outside and shuffles into the building. Warm air blasts on the threshold, burning exposed skin already scorched by the cold outside. Lance kind of wants to cry.

Most folks inside are bundled up, but a few have obviously been there long enough that their coats have been shed to rest over arms and the backs of chairs. Lance envies them. He collapses in an armchair that’s not nearly as comfortable as it looks and slumps until his hips threaten to slide off the seat. Chin nestled in his coat collar, he balances his phone on his stomach and starts idly flipping through random apps, avoiding the messages from his friends.

Using the last dregs of self-preservation he has left, Lance determinedly does not open his camera roll—not that he doesn’t think about all the pictures and screenshots he has of Keith. He’s staring at the camera icon gleaming back at him obnoxiously when his phone gives one last fitful buzz and dies in his hand. There’s no way he’s going back outside to fetch his charger.

Which means he’s left with thoughts saturated with regret. Lance doesn’t enjoy himself.

* * *

Only when he’s waking up does Lance realize he passed out in the first place. Most of his body is sliding to the floor. Shakily pushing himself up, Lance twists to look over his shoulder at the clock over the main entrance. He’d slept for nearly an hour. Lance sighs through his teeth, knowing he’s going to have to get his charger from the car; it won’t be long until his mom starts sending passive aggressive texts about his well-being. At least he’s warm now.

When he turns back around, Lance nearly chokes on his next breath. “The hell?”

“Yeah,” says Keith through chattering teeth. “Th-the hell.”

Lance stares, speechless, feeling his awareness come in like high tide. That can’t be Keith standing in front of him, bundled in a thick coat with a raw face and snow still clinging to his windswept hair. He’s shivering violently. Several things click into place in quick succession: Keith _is_ here, Keith is _cold_ , and—

“Your car doesn’t have heating,” Lance blurts out.

“No sh-sh-shit,” says Keith.

“You _drove_ here?”

“Obv-viously.”

Lance leaps to his feet and grabs Keith to shove him into his chair. Shrugging off his coat, Lance drapes it over Keith with little regard for his face, quickly followed by his hoodie and his gloves, even though the latter sits on the pile like sad fingered cherries. A disgruntled Keith pokes his face up over the layers to glare at him.

“You look like an angry pug,” Lance says a little breathlessly. Keith’s scowl deepens and all Lance wants to do is laugh. “What are you doing here?”

Still shivering, Keith frees his arms to toss the gloves and hoodie back at Lance, who puts them on because the building isn’t quite _that_ warm.

“You said you were sick,” says Keith.

“Oh.” Lance snorts. “I’ve driven in worse condition, trust me. Like that time I thought I was hungover but I was still drunk and—yeah, you get the point.”

“That’s not reassuring,” grumbles Keith, “and there’s a cold weather warning. The roads are bad. Drivers suck.”

“I’m fine, seriously. You look worse than I feel.”

“That’s—”

“ _I’m_ good, you’re not,” interrupts Lance, scrubbing a hand through his hair and belatedly realizing he’s wearing gloves. He stuffs them into his pocket just to do it again. “I’ll take you back.” When Keith opens his mouth to retort, Lance reaches out to jerk his coat hood over his face. “You’re not driving home in that abominable tin can.”

Keith shakes his head until the hood drops from his face. “I came here _for_ you, not to be babied _by_ you.”

“Yeah, well, how the turn tables and all that.”

“Lance.”

“I’ll go start the car, you stay here and warm up.”

“ _Lance—_ ”

“Um, excuse me.” A young woman with a halo of thick fur on her hood slips between two chairs to approach them hesitantly. Held out in front of her is a handful of hotpacks. “I have some extras, if you’d like.”

“That’d be perfect!” Lance beams as he takes two, barely resisting the urge to touch the fur. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. Did you need a hot coffee or…?”

“Wh—oh! No, thanks, no I’ll get one in a bit. Thank you, though, really.”

She smiles and nods as Keith belatedly mumbles his gratitude, and leaves when Lance flips the hotpacks over to read the instructions.

“I don’t need those,” says Keith.

“Shut it, Frosty.”

Keith puts up one hell of a fight for something as straightforward as holding onto the steadily warming gel pocket, but Lance is nothing if not persistent. Perched on the arm of the chair, one leg acting like a safety bar across Keith’s lap, Lance traps the pack between Keith’s hands by clamping his own around them in mock prayer.

For a long ten seconds, they say nothing, both staring at the layered grasp of their hands.

“So,” says Lance, “would you like to learn more about our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ?”

Keith exhales sharply. “Look, I didn’t want to leave things awkward between us.”

“Hm. Is that from Genesis 6:6?”

“No, it’s from Keith 5:2, the one where he kicks your ass.”

“Can’t say I’m familiar,” says Lance weakly.

“Just listen to me for a second. For a minute. Sixty seconds, can you do that?”

Between the feeling of Keith’s cold hands under his and the carefully neutral look he’s levelled him, Lance can’t do much else but nod. The anxious flutter of his gut is comparable to his nausea from earlier, but instead of sapping his strength it seems to be building on it. At least he can be grateful the ambient noise of the pitstop ensures a somewhat private conversation.

“Okay,” says Keith, gaze dropping to their hands. “Okay. I know my reaction was bad. I was just… with the drinking and the drugs I couldn’t tell whether I was me or not, or if you were you, and if the words were because of _that_ or something else, and I—wait.” Keith looks up to stare at Lance, his expression a perfect split between horrified and confused. “Wait, do you even remember what you said last night?”

Lance swallows nervously. “Um. What part?”

Keith’s eyes flick between Lance’s, wide and searching in a way that Lance can’t for the life of him figure out. Maybe he answered wrong. He should’ve just said yes, but what if he said something _worse_ and doesn’t remember that?

“Wanting to kiss me,” says Keith.

It’s probably sheer terror that keeps Lance’s face devoid of all emotion—that, or paralysis. “Ah. Yeah.”

“Alright. Okay. Then—then yeah, at the time, I couldn’t tell if anything was real or not, like. I had a moment where I forgot house hippos weren’t real, you know? You said my place was haunted and it took me a second. The point is, I wasn’t sure how to… to form a reaction. Do I laugh, do I even ask, do I—”

Lance’s hands feel like ice when he lets go of Keith’s, effectively cutting off his short-lived rambling. All business, Lance tucks his coat over Keith’s hands before dropping his leg so both feet are on the floor. He can feel Keith’s eyes on him the whole time. If there’s one thing Lance is sure of, it’s that their friendship will never be able to return to what it once was. Keith had an hour and a half to parse his words together, and still couldn’t come up with a social band-aid for the gunshot wound of a situation Lance put them in. Not like Lance is any better. He didn’t even try.

“Why are you here, Keith?” Lance asks, trying and failing not to sound drained. _You did this to yourself,_ he reminds himself. It doesn’t help. “You don’t need to pity me. I know I fucked up. It’s fine, really, I’ll get over it.”

“What? No. _I_ fucked up.”

“Keith, buddy, I made a move on you in the most inappropriate situation. I took advantage of your trust.”

“You didn’t make a move on me.” Lance can hear the frown in his voice. “You just said you wanted to kiss me. Right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t, I might vomit.”

“Fuck you. Just look at me.”

Lance obeys, turning his head to look down past his shoulder at Keith.

“Give me another sixty seconds,” says Keith, who doesn’t wait for Lance’s acknowledgement before continuing, “I’ve never been in a relationship. I don’t know what it _means_ . I don’t know what I’m supposed to want, how it’s different from friendship, if it’s worth it in the end. And I’ve thought about it _a lot_ . I know I keep up this façade of not caring about that sort of shit, but I do. It’s everywhere, how can I not? I just—I just never thought it was, you know, an actual option. For me. So when you said that, I thought _holy fuck_ , _that’s real._ ”

The pause that follows is long enough that Lance assumes he’s finished, so he says, “Keith, you don’t have to—I don’t _expect_ anything from you. It’s not like I’m… latching onto you because you’re the only ace in the room.”

“That’s not what I meant,” mutters Keith.

“I didn’t mean to kick you into some sort of existential crisis.”

“It’s not a crisis.”

“I have no idea what point you’re trying to make, buddy,” admits Lance.

“Because you keep interrupting me,” Keith says with a glare, to which Lance pointedly mimes zipping his mouth shut. Seemingly satisfied, Keith shifts until his arms are above his makeshift blanket. The hotpack has mysteriously vanished. “To answer your earlier question, about why I’m here? I came because I love you.”

Lance’s heart rate spikes and flatlines in the few seconds it takes to process that.

“You’re too good a friend to me,” he says sourly. “Leave me to rot. I think I need it.”

“What? I’m… I’m saying I love you? I mean, yes as a friend, don’t make me repeat that but—as more too! I’ll say that as much as I have to.”

“You love me.”

“Yes.”

“As a friend.”

“For the love of—” Keith lifts a hand and for a moment Lance thinks he’s going to hit him, but then Keith is digging around until his phone appears in his hands. Five seconds later he’s shoving it at Lance, unlocked and on what appears to be his camera roll.

Perplexed, Lance takes it and blinks down at the photos. He recognizes them before he even taps the first, though it takes him a moment to really understand what it is he’s looking at: a screenshot of his face in midlaugh. _Swipe_. Lance stuck in a snowdrift. _Swipe_. Lance and his mom’s cat pressed into his face. _Swipe_. Lance. _Swipe_. More Lance.

And he thought his own screenshot gallery of Keith was telling—this is undeniably embarrassing.

“Oh,” squeaks Lance. Slow on the uptake, his heart begins revving up. He drops the phone back into Keith’s hands, which are shaking.

“And I thought about—about—” For some reason, Keith looks on the verge of a fistfight, his face growing redder by the second. “I thought about what it might be like to kiss you.”

“You did?” Now Lance just feels faint, as if all his blood is travelling to Keith’s face instead.

“But I was... worried. That I was like, invalidating myself—I know that’s stupid! I know! But. God I don’t know if it was the drugs or the alcohol or both, but I got scared I was faking it or something.”

“Oh.”

“And in the morning, you were already up and I didn’t know if you remembered, or if you said it because of the alcohol, too.”

“Oh.”

“Then you guys all left and I sat there with Marzipan and I couldn’t stop thinking about everything. Like why my brain cells were working at one percent their usual capacity, why I didn’t tell you as soon as I woke up what I thought, why I thought you didn’t feel the same months ago when you’re so easy to read. Did you know Hunk called me out on taking so many screenshots months ago? Said it was flirting.”

“Oh. I’m gonna hurl.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

“But a good hurl, y’know, like ejecting butterflies—”

Keith bursts out laughing and it’s a wonder Lance doesn’t starting crying from the onslaught of emotions he’s struggling to process. Suddenly Keith is nudging at Lance with an elbow as he fights to free himself from the chair.

“I’m boiling,” he says by way of explanation. Lance doesn’t doubt it, by the flush of his face and the giddy warmth toasting Lance from the inside out. He stands to get out of the way, taking his coat back and automatically putting it on even though heatstroke is suddenly a very real threat. “So, I wasn’t, uh, lying earlier.”

“Which part? ‘Cause I didn’t think you were, whatever it is.”

Back on two feet, Keith purses his lips at Lance’s shoulder. It takes Lance a moment to realize he’s fighting back a smile. It eventually breaks free, however, his mouth curving into a shy smile that Lance takes like a bullet to the heart. Keith says nothing, but he doesn’t need to when Lance sees the very deliberate way his eyes flick up to meet his, then drop to Lance’s mouth.

It takes everything Lance has not to burst into a fit of giggles.

Keith is still smiling when he kisses Lance; he feels the shape of it in the gentle press of their lips together. Admittedly, Lance expected sparks, but instead it’s the warmth of rum and eggnog in his belly, the comfort of a sleepy hand through his hair, the quiet contentment of a hug hello. Though the fizzle of his nerves are ever present, Lance isn’t anxious. He forgets why he might be. This is Keith, after all, someone he loves in a dozen different ways.

“Not having another crisis?” Lance asks into the air between them.

Scoffing, still wearing that slightly shy smile Lance adores, Keith opens his arms. Lance leans into the embrace, relishing the way Keith squeezes his arms around him, as if blending their warmth together. Just when Lance doesn’t think it can get any better, Keith nuzzles into his neck.

It isn’t until they pull away from each other that Lance remembers they’re standing in an ONroute, their two cars are metal popsicles outside, and both of them need to get home. Lance brushes his hands down Keith’s arms until he locates a warm palm and fingers to tangle his with.

“I’ll call CAA to pick up your tin can,” he says, “and I’ll drive you home.”

Keith wrinkles his nose at him. “No, seriously, I don’t want you driving home late if you have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Oh, that,” Lance says dismissively. “I don’t actually have to work. That was just an excuse to flee.”

“Great,” says Keith with an unsurprised nod. “Then you can stay at mine. We need to make up for lost cuddles.”

“Yeah, Pidge hogged Lorazepam like, all night.” Lance grins when Keith tries to wack him with their joined hands. “Speaking of Pidge, I need to get my phone charger.”

To the tune of Keith describing exactly _how_ pissed off Pidge was getting in the hour that Lance napped, they walked out of the ONroute to find which snowbank Lance buried his car. The cold is still biting, delegating their hands back into the protection of pockets, until Lance is forced to dig around for the charger he somehow lost in his bag.

“This is kind of embarrassing to ask,” Keith says, teeth already chattering, “but can I call you my boyfriend?”

“I’m going to die,” declares Lance to the clothes he’s shovelled to the car floor. “Yes you can, holy shit. Is this what a heart attack feels like?”

“My god, so dramatic.”

Lance straightens with charger in hand, looking at Keith with a deadpan expression. “You’re gonna have to excuse the dramatics, I literally can’t comprehend how happy I am right now.”

Keith screws his face up in what Lance recognizes as embarrassed joy. “I don’t even know what dating is, so don’t go raising your expectations.”

“Not to worry, I’ve been daydreaming of this moment,” says Lance, reaching out to stuff his free hand in Keith’s pocket and steal the warmth from his fingers. “It means we’re best friends, but I get more excuses to come see you. We can cuddle without being weird about people asking if we’re dating, ‘cause we are. We get to call hanging out _dates_. I get to be even more embarrassing. It means taking care of each other’s hearts.”

“Oh no,” says Keith in mock horror that Lance doesn’t take to heart because the blush they share is only half due to the cold.

Beaming, Lance says, “Love you, asshat.”

The hands joined in Keith’s pocket squeeze together, pleased and confident.

“Love you too, douchebag,” Keith replies.

* * *

**★·.·´¯`·.·★ Squad ★·.·´¯`·.·★, LuLu the Lioness, fav fish girl, Shayle, nyma numa**

» Lance with a beaming smile, Keith wearing a fond grin, and their linked hands held in the air.

Caption: sorry abt the wait

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR READING AND HAPPY NEW YEAR FOLKS!! fable au i will still write but it'll be slow, i know it, y'all know it :')) but other than that, i don't see myself writing anymore vld related fics in the future. my heart lies with bnha and one piece now *blows a kiss to the sun* for luffy.
> 
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> [tumblr](http://bitterbeetle.tumblr.com)  
> [twitter](http://twitter.com/bitterbeetle)
> 
>  **edit:** rdt will...probably be updated.......actually..............


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